Into The Woods
by The Typewriter Girl
Summary: While he and Derek are solving a mystery in the woods, Stiles is unexpectedly injured… And loosing blood fast. Will the stubbly, eye-rolling werewolf be able to get him back to safety in time? Along the way, the pair may discover they don't despise the other as much as they think they do... As always: whump, bromance, and Sterek if you squint! ;)
1. Chapter 1

Derek rolled his eyes for what must have been the tenth time that day, stubbly chin crinkling with the strain of maintaing an extra-deep scowl for the past half hour. A mild headache had slowly mounted over those thirty minutes; the result of trying desperately to drown out the ceaseless stream of enthusiastic babble spewing from the mouth of the lanky teen walking ahead of him.

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" He gritted out, glowering at the skinny figure awkwardly stumbling ahead. He seemed out of place against the chilly atmosphere of the woods, overshadowed by a slate-grey sky blanketed with darkening clouds.

"Sourwolf, you should know by now that I really _don't_," quipped Stiles, tossing the alpha a backwards glance.

"In that case, I should try ripping out your vocal cords… With my _teeth."_

"You should _also_ know by now that you never actually follow through with those violent, werefolfy threats of yours," the teen replied breezily, pausing to bend down and rake through some leaves with his fingers. The alpha gritted his teeth, halting as he waited for him. It took everything he had not to grab the kid by the neck and slam him against a tree.

"What exactly do you expect to find in a pile of soiled leaves?" He asked impatiently, flinging his arms up in exasperation and arching his head back, eyes pleading with some invisible source in the overcast sky above.

"Don't you watch Criminal Minds? Forensics professionals always scour for clues," replied Stiles with a sigh, digging his fingers into the earth where he was crouched. "Believe it or not, there is more to solving mysteries than just_ sniffing_ with your little dog nose… Like paying attention to detail," he finished, hand suddenly retracting from the ground. He turned to Derek and held up a glittery gold bead between his soil-covered fingertips, a triumphant grin on his face.

"What is _that?"_ Derek growled, eyes flickering skeptically between the bead and the teen's face. Stiles lowered his gaze, his smile slowly compressing into a grim line as he examined the tiny ball. He rolled it between his fingertips as if it were a diamond.

"It's a bead from Matt Kishby's necklace," He muttered, a twinge of sadness entering his voice. Derek frowned and took a step forward, getting a closer look. It looked like a generic plastic bead from a cheap dollar-store necklace, like the ones people wore for Mardi-Gras.

"How do you know that's his?" He asked, eyebrows knitting together doubtfully. Stiles lifted his head up to meet Derek's gaze.

"Because I saw Danny give it to him last night," he said, letting out a sigh as he stood up. "Now. Since we actually have a _lead,_ we can continue on our merry little way skipping through the misty, scary forest and find him, find Kate, have you do some ass-whooping and then we can all go _home…_ If Scott would ever show up," he muttered, jamming his other hand into his back pocket. He huffed an annoyed breath as he dug out his phone, pursing his lips when the read the screen.

_Scott:  
__sorry leaving now_

"Is he on his way yet?" Derek interjected, voice dipping in annoyance as he continued walking. He didn't know much more one-on-one time he could take with the babbling spazz without hooking the hood of his jacket on a tree and leaving him to dangle until nightfall. Stiles teetered behind in close pursuit as his thumbs flew furiously over the padded keys on his phone, head pulled down as he scowled at the screen.

"He says he's leaving now. Which is exactly what he said ten minutes ago… And ten minutes before that," grumbled Stiles, vehemently shoving the cell back into his jeans as he quickened his pace to catch up to Derek.

He and Scott had talked about getting girlfriends since the third grade, their eight-year-old jokes turning into more serious discussions over the years as they hit high school. Stiles had always suspected that Scott would find someone first; after all, he was the cuter one. The stronger one. The one who didn't turn into a nervous, stuttering idiot when talking to other people, and more recently the one with a sexy supernatural secret under his belt. He hadn't been surprised when Scott came bounding up to him in the hall one day, his chocolate puppy-dog eyes sparkling with more mirth than Stiles had seen in a long time.

_"Stiles! I asked Alison out, a-and she said yes!"_

Stiles had grinned and tackled his friend in a massive, back-clapping bear hug, genuinely excited for him as he howled his congrats. Now Scott could finally have a positive outlet for everything he'd been through the past month; a distraction from the brutal, dark world he was entering. For the time being, Stiles was okay with not having a girl; Scott was already his anchor. Besides… He had recently come to realize that he actually liked _guys_ too… But he would get to telling Scott that later.

"Why do you put up with it?"

Stiles jerked his head up to glance at Derek, who was looking back at him with his signature scowl.

"What? You mean the way my best friend has been blowing me off so he can make out with Alison?" He retorted bitterly, scuffing the ground with his sneaker as he treaded behind the werewolf. A scatter of damp, earth-covered leaves tumbled into the air and flopped back to the ground like dead birds falling from the sky. Stiles sighed, gaze softening slightly as he scanned the ground, subconsciously searching for more clues.

"He's happy."

"He's being an _ass."_

Stiles blinked in surprise at Derek's remark, glancing up curiously at the alpha again. The werewolf did not turn around. The teen opened his mouth to protest, but wasn't really shocked when nothing came out. He was hurt by his friend's treatment. Stiles clamped his lips back together, frowning slightly as he clumsily stepped over a log that Derek had effortlessly leapt over mere moments before. Then suddenly he stopped, leg mid-swing as something caught his eye.

"Derek."

The werewolf heaved another exasperated sigh, breaking the record for new extremes of impatience. He turned around to find Stiles crouched over the fallen log, his red converse half-buried in the dirt as he strained forward and pulled out a string of gold beads from a crevice between the tree's bark.

"How do you _find_ these things?" Demanded Derek incredulously, scowling to hide the fact that he was slightly impressed with the teen.

"I _look,"_ Stiles said dryly, inspecting the broken necklace curiously. "I am also drawn to shiny things."

Derek rolled his eyes. Then Stiles suddenly paused, hands freezing in place as he stared wide-eyed at the beads.

"Derek… There's blood on it."

The werewolf tensed, inwardly cringing at the possible causes… Kate at the top of the list. Stiles straightened up and maneuvered himself off the fallen tree, nearly tripping over his own gangly limbs in the process. The teen held out the beads, which dangled back and forth like a crazed pendulum before Derek.

"Can you get his scent from these?"

The werewolf reached out and took the broken necklace, eyeing it cautiously as he brought it to his nose. He inhaled deeply, his senses picking up wisps of leftover pheromones. _Blood, sweat, fear, rage._ Derek had a feeling that last one didn't belong to Matt.

He focused on the scent, letting his nose guide him forward into the woods. Stiles followed close behind, hopeful eyes glued on the werewolf like a little kid watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. Derek picked up the pace as the scent grew stronger, coupled with a steadily-growing knot in his stomach.

"We're getting closer," he breathed, instincts driving him forward. Stiles trotted behind him, struggling to keep up with the werewolf.

"Hey, wait for me!" He quipped, Derek breaking into a light run at the sound of his panted request. The pair tore through the woods, driving in deeper through the forrest as the werewolf drank in the steadily-intensifying trail of Matt's scent, Stiles a few paces behind him. The teen caught flashes of more beads as they sped through the trees, his apprehension mounting with every sparkling gold fleck he spotted peeking out from the blanket of fallen leaves littering the ground. Just as he was about to call out to Derek to slow down, the alpha suddenly skidded to a stop at a sloped clearing, chest heaving as he stared down at the gorge below.

"Why'd you stop…"

Stiles panted as he stumbled to a stop behind the werewolf, his voice faltering when his eyes wandered down the ravine and landed on what Derek was staring at.

The body of a teenage boy was crumpled face-up at the foot of the hill, limbs stretched out around him like Jesus on the cross. A dozen deep gashes were splayed across his bare chest, darkened mahogany blood caked over his neon body paint from the night before like a horrifying Jackson Pollock. Two half-lidded eyes stared sightlessly up at the two of them, sunken into the bruised purple flesh bleeding into his stock-white complexion. A small trickle of crimson trickled out from the corner of his mouth, bringing out the deathly hue in his cracked, ashen lips.

Stiles fell to his knees, overcome with a wave of dizziness as he tried desperately not to be sick. He sucked in a cold, acrid-tasting breath, screwing his eyes shut as he tried to shatter the lingering image in his mind.

"That's him…" He choked out quietly, grabbing a fistful of earth. "That's Matt…"

Derek didn't move. His hands curled slightly at his sides as he stared grimly at the broken body below. A flicker of frustration shot through his gaze.

"Get up. We need to inspect the body."

Stiles wrenched his head up, gaping incredulously at the werwolf as he scrambled to his feet.

_"What?_ No, no we don't! We need to wait for Scott," he interjected, shooting a hand out and grabbing the sleeve of Derek's leather jacket as the alpha took a step forward over the gorge. The werewolf's gaze whipped to the hold before shooting up to the teen's face, eyes flashing dangerously as he ripped his arm out of the grip.

"We don't have _time_ to wait," growled Derek. "There could be something on him that could lead us to…"

Suddenly the alpha trailed off, his scowl softening as the faintest trace of unease seeped into his expression. Stiles stared at him curiously, unconsciously clenching his stomach muscles in trepidation as the werewolf cocked his head, gaze glued on the horizon as he seemingly tuned into something. Then Derek tensed, his eyes widening in alarm.

_"Get DOWN!"_

Stiles hardly had time to register the alpha's shouted warning before he was knocked to the ground, face slamming into the dirt as Derek barreled into him just as the sound of a whizzing arrow sliced through the air above them. Stiles squirmed under the alpha's weight, whipping his head up in pertubation as he wildly scanned the clearing. Derek quickly rolled off him and leapt up, lip curling in a low growl as his eyes darted frantically around the trees.

"My, Kate really wasn't kidding when she said you liked to be on top…"

The pair whipped their heads in the direction of the gravelly voice, their eyes landing on a shady figure stepping out from behind the trees. Stiles scrambled to his feet as the stocky form stepped into the clearing, chuckling darkly as he eyed the two of them. He was tall and broad, tattooed muscles rippling underneath a tight black tank; there was a tattered charcoal cloth wrapped around his head that came down to his eyebrows, just above his aviator lenses. Stiles swallowed thickly upon noticing the quiver of arrows slung over his back… And the arrow currently drawn in the heavy crossbow positioned in his grip.

"Where is she?" Derek demanded, baring his fangs in an enraged snarl as his steely emerald gaze bore into the figure. His eyes flickered to the weapon wearily.

"Who, _Kate?"_ The man suggested innocently, his lips curling into an ugly sneer. "Oh, she just sent me to do her handiwork. Doesn't like to get her hands dirty, you see." He chuckled again, his husky laugh ringing out and settling uncomfortably in their stomachs. He turned to Derek, eyeing him up and down as if he were a statue on display at a museum. "I didn't believe her when she said you would come running into the woods to find some _nobody,_ but it looks like you've walked right into her trap… And you brought a friend, apparently," he finished, eyeing Stiles hungrily.

Derek instinctively took a step in front of the teen, staring the man down with a venomous glare.

"You mean she killed an innocent teenager just so she could lure me here to have you _kill_ me?" He spat.

"No, she killed an innocent teenager so she could lure you here and have me _capture_ you," the man replied, smirking. He shifted his gaze to Stiles, lips broadening into a malicious grin. _"Him,_ on the other hand…"

Before Stiles could even twitch a muscle, the man suddenly jerked the crossbow in his direction and pulled the trigger. The teen screwed his eyes shut in that millisecond, bracing himself for the painful penetration of the arrow that would stop his heart... But it never came. He fell backwards and scrambled for purchase as Derek's deafening roar shattered the atmosphere, intertwining with the sharp whiz of the arrow as he swung his arm out with lightening-fast reflexes, catching it in mid-air. A sharp crack ripped through the wooded area as Stiles blinked in surprise, heart beating wildly as Derek snapped it in half, glowing red eyes blazing at the assassin.

But the hitman was already whipping another arrow into the holster, lining it up point-blank with Derek as the werewolf let out a terrifying roar and charged towards him, claws outstretched. Another crack echoed across the small clearing as he pulled the trigger again. Derek contracted his muscles and twisted to side to avoid the shot, eyes widening as the arrow whizzed past his ear and ripped through his forearm, pinning him to a tree as he howled in agony.

In a flash the assassin leapt forward, tossing his crossbow to the side as he tackled Stiles, slamming the teen's limbs to the ground underneath his massive frame. Stiles yelped and struggled to wriggle out of his grip, his breath hitching in terror as his attacker straddled him and quickly unsheathed a large dagger from his boot. He whipped out the blade, eyes glinting maliciously in sync with the light reflecting off the shiny silver. Stiles sucked in a ragged breath, preparing to let out a scream of terror to mark his apparent upcoming death at the hands of some macho brute, just like some bad horror flick.

The dagger swung down.

As the cry escaped his lips, Stiles distantly registered a petrifying, startlingly-close roar as the hitman's weight was suddenly knocked off him. Immediately he rolled onto his front, gasping for air as he whipped his head around just in time to see Derek snap the assasin's neck. With the sickening crack, a horrid guttural choke rang out as the burly figure flopped limply to the ground, eyes wide and unseeing.

Stiles quickly averted his gaze, eyes screwing shut as he trembled on his hands and knees, head hung low above the dirt._ Ohgodohgodohgod._ His stomach clenched threateningly as he tried to un-see the horrifying action; the second dead body he had seen that day. It was a lot to handle. The world spun slightly as he distantly registered Derek's voice saying his name. Stiles wrenched his eyes open and lifted his head, blinking as the trees around him sharpened into focus. Derek was staring down at him, his features pinched in annoyance and… C_oncern?_

"Are you okay?" The werewolf asked sharply. The way it was enunciated, Stiles thought that maybe he had been repeating the question.

He looked up at the alpha in confusion as his mind struggled to get a grip and piece everything together. His eyes flickered to the bloody stain on Derek's forearm, from which a nasty gash peeked out beneath a tear in his shirt; the guy had apparently ripped the arrow out of his shoulder (_werewolves and their high-pain tolerance_) and freed himself from the tree in time to knock the crazy bastard off him. A quick glance to the left confirmed the theory as Stiles spotted the broken, bloodied arrow lying a few feet away at the foot of the tree. Realizing he was still crouched on the ground, the teen shakily pushed himself up.

"Yeah," he breathed, silently cursing his trembling limbs as he rose unsteadily to his feet. "Yeah… I'm okay."

Stiles turned to Derek, squinting as he fought off a fresh wave of dizziness. His expression melted into one of unease as he noticed the werewolf was staring at him, eyes wide and glued to his torso. Stiles tensed, a cold dread settling into his chest like dust sinking into an old carpet. He slowly lowered his head and looked down, his eerily-placid gaze wandering down his navy thermal over his shoulders, chest, sternum… Until it landed on a bright red blotch underneath the last bone of his ribcage, fresh blood glistening beneath a long gash in the fabric.

* * *

Hey readers, welcome to story #4! Just as I mentioned in my last fic, here is another disclaimer: You may be asking, _"Why didn't the beefy assassin dude just use his crossbow on Stiles? If he really wanted to kill him, he should have just shot him dead instead of pulling out the knife! What the hell was that for?!"_  
Welp. That was for the whump factor, my friends. Arrows were a really good way to incapacitate Derek for just long enough so the guy could attack Stiles, but that particular weaponry method can be rather… _life-ending_ for non-werewolves… And I don't want my favorite Teen Wolf human to die! Plus, a nice gash provides some deliciously drawn-out peril, coming up in the next chapter :) Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles froze in horror, the tremors in his hands rapidly evolving into violent quaking as he took in the sight of the blood staining his shirt.

"Ohhh, _fuck_— Oh God, oh God nononono!" He choked out, voice cracking in trepidation as he frantically clutched at the wound. His breaths quickly escalated into short, frantic gasps as panic wielded his heart rate, making the world spin around him as he stumbled backwards. Derek lunged forward and grabbed the his arm in an attempt to catch him, but Stiles's legs buckled beneath him, making the teen land hard on his ass as he scrabbled back against the foot of a tree.

"Stiles, _Stiles!_ You've got to calm down!" Demanded Derek, struggling to lower him to the ground.

_"Shit!_ shit— Derek!" Stiles cried desperately, clamping his hands over his stomach as he doubled over. His panicked cinnamon eyes pleaded with the werewolf as he sucked in deep breaths, trying to get his breathing under control.

"Let me see," Derek said, crouching down.

"No, no I c-can't—"

"Stiles, you have to let me _see."_

Derek tightened his grip on the teen's shoulder, making Stiles look up and meet his gaze. Steady emerald met terrified cinnamon in a silent exchange of tentative mutual conviction. Stiles swallowed dryly, scrunching his eyes shut as he sucked in another muffled gasp, preparing himself. Then he slowly withdrew his shaking hands from his midsection, palms coming away slick with blood. They trembled in the air, hovering above his stomach like birds hesitant to leave their nest as Derek gently pried the fabric apart with his fingers, peeking through the gash to inspect the wound.

The line was long and semi-deep, running from the bottom of Stiles's ribcage diagonally down to his naval. It bled slowly but freely, trickles of blood oozing out and cascading down over his belly-button in a sickening cherry-colored stream. Derek frowned. The wound itself wasn't critical, but at the rate it was bleeding…

"How is it? Is it bad?"

Carefully controlling his features, the werewolf glanced up and met the teen's gaze. Stiles was staring at him as if he held the knowledge between life and death, his eyes two anxious saucers pleading beneath a sea of pained wrinkles as he awaited the alpha's answer. Derek's gaze flickered back to the wound.

"We need to get you back to my house," he said, standing up.

_"What?"_

The pained cry tore out of Stile's lips in a cracked squeak.

"Oh no, _no,_ that means it's bad! Oh God, I don't wanna die yet—"

"You're not going to _die,"_ growled Derek, rolling his eyes as he took hold of the teen's arm again, impatiently hoisting him into standing position.

_If we can get you back before you bleed out._

The dark forethought popped into the werewolf's mind as he tightened his grip on Stiles, steadying the human as he fought to find his balance. Derek cast his gaze out across the clearing; they had easily traveled three miles into the woods since their departure from the Hale house. The sun was setting against the horizon, but it's golden hues were trapped behind the blanket of grey fog covering the sky; instead a cold, blue light filtered through onto the surrounding trees, staining the mist in the atmosphere silver. Darkness was already stretching it's shadowed fingers across the wooded clearing, bringing with it an icy tingle to the already chilly air. Derek's frown deepened as he realized that the temperature would only continue dropping, which didn't spell out a pretty sentence for someone suffering from blood loss... Not to mention that nightfall would attract all kinds of unwanted supernatural visitors…

He looked to Stiles again, who was standing on wobbly legs, petrified gaze glued to the crimson seeping through the fingers he held against his torso. His other hand was gripped on Derek's sleeve, smearing blood on the black leather. Derek sighed, casting his scowl to the skies. _Of course the kid managed to get injured._

"Keep pressure on it," he grumbled, striding forward.

"Wait, w-what about the bodies?" Stiles stuttered as he stumbled behind him, releasing his grip on the werewolf's signature jacket. "We can't just leave them, let me call my—"

The teen's voice halted abruptly as his hand entered his pocket, withdrawing with fingers wrapped around his crushed phone. He swallowed the newly-formed lump in his throat, adam's apple bobbing up and down as little shards of the screen fluttered to the ground like confetti. It must have broke when the brute tackled him to the ground...

"Oh, _excellent._ This is just flippin' fabulous," he muttered, fervently shoving the phone back into his pocket. More pieces of metal tumbled to the leaves below as Stiles pressed his other hand against his wound, wincing as the initial shock wore off and dull bubbles of pain leaked through his registry. "Now I'm for _sure_ going to die alone in this creepy forest with none other than Oscar the grouchy werewolf..."

"I just saved your ass, idiot," Derek growled, throwing an annoyed glare back at the teen.

"Yes, for which I am very grateful," nodded Stiles, hobbling after him. "Just maybe next time you could try to save my ass _before_ I get stabbed?"

"Maybe next time I'll just sit back and watch you get_ killed."_

"Always the charmer, sourwolf…"

* * *

The two continued treading through the woods for a little while, Derek leading the way as Stiles trailed behind him. The werewolf stared stonily ahead, taking in the landscape as Stiles babbled faintly in background. The scenery would have been beautiful if the current circumstances didn't hang so ominously over the dewy timberland, staining the soft mist an unsettling shade of slate-grey. He trudged onwards, lost in thought as his heavy boots compressed small crackles out of the leaves underneath them, listening to Stiles's clumsier steps following at his heels. _Speaking of which..._

"Derek…"

The werewolf glanced over his shoulder at the panted utterance of his name, halting as he noticed Stiles had stopped a few paces behind him. The teen was panting and hunched over slightly, a bloodied hand clasped over his abdomen. The ruby-colored stain beneath his fingers had blossomed in size, like a red rose unfurling it's petals in a Spring bloom. His knees wobbled dangerously beneath his thin frame before he stumbled over to a tree on his left, shooting a hand out as he crashed against the bark, breathing heavily. Derek quickly came to his side and grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

"Derek," Stiles panted, pressing his forehead against the weathered tree. "I can't— I can't keep—"

"Yes you can," said Derek firmly, cutting him off. His eyebrows knitted together in concern as he took in the sight of the human; he was pale, a slight sheen of sweat breaking out across his brow as he trembled against the tall spruce. The werewolf cast a quick glance to the sky, pursing his lips in silent irritation.

"Put your arm around me," He commanded, weaving an arm around Stiles's waist. The teen stiffened at the motion, but complied and hooked his arm over the alpha's shoulders, wincing as he straightened up. Derek took a step forward, glancing wearily at the human as he found his footing and hobbled alongside him. A hitched gasp slipped through the Stiles's lips as the alpha pressed his palm firmly over the teen's hand, adding more pressure to the gash below.

"Aah— Hey!" Stiles protested, flinching away from the werewolf's hold.

"You need to press harder if you want to slow the bleeding," Derek growled, keeping his hand firmly glued in place. Stiles faintly grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and followed the werewolf's order, gritting his teeth together as he applied more pressure against the wound. Upon feeling the action, Derek released his grip.

"...Why are you doing this?"

The alpha's gaze flickered to Stiles, who was squinting up at him curiously through tensed features.

"Doing what?"

"Helping me. You _hate_ me."

"I don't hate you."

"Oh, right. Shoving people into walls and growling insults at them is just a hobby for you."

"Shut up, Stiles."

"...Exactly my point."

A low growl rumbled in Derek's chest, making a small smirk to jump to the teen's lips. It quickly disappeared as another stab of pain flared from his abdomen, triggering a small choke from the back of his throat. Stiles could feel the wound throbbing now, sending up warm waves of dull ache with every other step. He swallowed thickly, trying not to think about the sticky wetness covering his hands. _You're okay,_ he thought desperately, drawing in a shaky breath through his nose. _You're fine, just don't look at it. Just keep walking…_

The pair trudged on in silence for a while. Stiles's light panting, interspersed with the dampened crunching of the leaves beneath their feet, were the only sounds that shattered the mist-ridden air. The sun continued to sink down towards the horizon, dragging dregs of warmth and light down with it; it wasn't long before the chill seeped through the the teen's shirt, nipping at his skin and drenching him in a coat of gooseflesh.

Stiles hobbled alongside the werewolf, trying to blink away the dizziness creeping into his vision as small shivers rippled across his body. He didn't even realize that he had subconsciously leaned in closer to Derek's warmth until the alpha suddenly stopped, huffing out a sigh as he practically dragged him over to a tree and plopped him down. The teen's vision jarred with the sudden movement, wavering in and out of focus as he let his head fall back against the bark. _Damn, he was tired._ When the world stopped spinning, he wrenched his head forward again, blinking in confusion as he met a leather jacket hanging five inches in front of his nose, held out at arm's length by a glowering Derek.

Stiles blinked stupidly, mouth falling open slightly as his confused gaze jumped back and forth between the jacket and the werewolf. _Surely he didn't mean…?_

"Put it on," commanded Derek, dropping it onto the teen's lap. Stiles just stared at him, not fully believing what the werewolf was suggesting —_letting_— him do. The alpha huffed a breath out his nose at the teen's seeming lack of comprehension.

"You're shivering. The last thing we need is for you to become hypothermic, let alone to go into shock. Put it on," he repeated, casting a stern look before crossing his arms and turning around to look at the horizon. A moment passed as he paused, then turned his head back towards Stiles.

"...And try not to bleed on it."

Stiles let himself gape in bewilderment at the intimidating figure for another moment before snapping his mouth shut and carefully maneuvering his arms into the soft leather, wincing as the movement pulled at his injury. Immediately the warmth of the jacket enveloped him, wrapping him in the comforting scent of what was apparently Derek Hale; musk and redwood, with slight undertones of cinnamon. The sudden change in temperature, coupled with his sustained blood loss and exhaustion, acted like a sedative as Stiles was hit with a powerful wave of drowsiness. The world tilted dangerously as the heat settled into his bones, numbing the dull ache that ravaged his body and suddenly Stiles lost control of his muscles, feeling his head drop against his chest as the world disappeared for a moment.

_"—iles, Stiles!"_

He figured he must have blacked out for a few seconds, because when he opened his eyes again Derek was suddenly kneeling next to him, patting his cheek and looking… _Worried?_

"Stiles, you have to stay awake," the alpha urged, looking seriously into his eyes. Stiles blinked, trying to clear his vision and dispel the fog clouding his head.

Derek hadn't expected the tug of alarm in his chest when he saw Stiles pass out. The teen's unfocused gaze had glazed over after slipping on the jacket, his head bobbing unsteadily before falling against his chest, limbs suddenly going lax as his eyes slipped shut. For a split second the werewolf worried he might not open them again, but to his relief the kid had come around almost immediately, blinking in confusion and looking up at him with tired eyes… But a new sense of urgency had settled into the werewolf's stomach; Stiles's little lapse in consciousness meant that the blood loss was beginning to take it's toll… And another quick glance across the wooded clearing showed that they weren't even halfway back yet.

"Come on, stand up," he said, lacing his hands underneath the teen's arms. Stiles blinked, momentarily confused at the new hands trying to pull him up before he regained his grip on reality and clumsily grabbed onto the werewolf, grunting as he was hoisted into a standing position. Derek quickly wrapped his arm back around Stiles's waist as the human swayed dangerously on his feet, eyelids fluttering rapidly as he fought for balance. He gripped the alpha's arms for dear life as he sucked in a deep breath, trying to make the world right itself.

"Keep pressure on your wound," Derek reminded him, tightening his grip around Stiles. The teen reluctantly obliged, unhooking his bloodied fingers from the werewolf's forearm and moving them back towards his stomach as he teetered unsteadily.

"Sorry," he breathed, wincing as he pressed his hand over his injury.

"Are you ready to keep walking?"

Stiles let himself take a couple more shaky breaths before answering.

"Yeah… Yeah, let's go."

Derek took a step forward, making sure the teen followed suit before moving into a steady pace. He noticed that Stiles moved with more difficulty this time, his feet clumsier in their placement as the human stared ahead, eyes pinching at the corners with fatigue. The cold sweat that glistened on his forehead had spread to his flushed cheeks, sparkling in a light film over the bubblegum hue like frost on a windowpane. The frigid air had nipped the color out of his pale lips, from which little puffs of mist spewed out as he panted.

"You n-never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Why are you doing this?"

There was an unusal lack of vigor in the teen's tired voice, replaced by hollow resignation. Derek glanced down. Stiles didn't meet his gaze.

"You could have left me," the teen mumbled, stumbling a little over his feet. "You could have followed that guy's scent back to Kate."

Derek frowned, an unexpected pinch of hurt nipping beneath his sternum. He'd be lying if he said the thought didn't cross his mind; of course it had occurred to him that following the assassin's trail could be the last chance in a while to find Kate, but did the kid really think he would just _abandon_ him like that? He knew he was… Blunt. Standoffish. Even rude, more often than he'd like to admit… _But did he really come off as that cold-hearted?_

"You're right, I could have," Derek stated, shifting his gaze back towards the horizon. "But I would never leave you to die, Stiles."

A moment of silence passed between them as Stiles ran the alpha's words over in his head, wondering _why._ He wasn't even a werewolf, let alone part of the pack… _Right?_ So why would Derek Hale, the brooding scowl-enthusiast who formally declared his annoyance with him at every given opportunity, be _helping_ him now?

_I would never leave you to die…  
_

The smallest smile flickered to Stiles's lips in the midst of his labored breathing. _Derek was becoming more like Scott everyday._ He wondered if the alpha realized it.

"Why'd you come, anyway?" He asked.

Derek glanced down at him.

"...To find your classmate?"

"Yeah, I mean..." Stiles paused, catching his breath. "Why'd you bother coming to help find him? Like I get that you hate Kate for killing your family and all, but the chances of actually running into her along the way… Why didn't you just sit back and let Scott take care of it?"

Stiles felt Derek's arm tighten slightly around his shoulders. The werewolf was silent, staring ahead as if he hadn't even heard the question. Stiles worried that he had gone too far, that he had uncovered some sore spot packed away deep within the alpha's heart, and was now in danger of being dropped on his ass to bleed out until nightfall. After a full minute passed without a reply, Stiles was just about to utter an apology when Derek suddenly spoke up.

"Kate took more than just my family," He said. His voice was calm, weighted down by what seemed to be a lifetime of heartache. Only a shadow of venom entered his voice as her name left his lips.  
"When I was younger, she was there for me. I gave her my trust, opened up to her. She made me believe that everything would be okay, despite everything that was going on with the alphas, the hunters, my struggle with the full moons… And then she ripped the rug out from underneath me when she burned my house to ground…" Derek paused, seemingly lost in thought before he continued, his voice taking on a much softer edge.  
"The fact that I wasn't there to save them...The fact that I never got to say goodbye? That I didn't burn down with them… I lost _more_ than just my parents and my siblings that day… I lost my hope."

The air stilled as the words left the werewolf's lips. Stiles stared at Derek in silent shock, not quite believing how much the werewolf had just shared with him. Not once during his reflection did the alpha's eyes ever flicker down and make eye contact with him, almost as if he were reciting the monologue in solitude. Stiles shifted his gaze back to to ground, feeling dizzy as he took everything in.

Suddenly every rude retort, insult, and cold-shouldered remark Derek had ever uttered made sense; the guy wasn't cruel or mean-spirited… He never _was._ He was just a guy haunted by his past, which had indoctrinated the notion that opening up and letting people get close to him only led to tragic consequences… No wonder he was standoffish; how could he trust people after what Kate did to him? How could he be expected to do anything _but_ scowl -be expected to _smile-_ after losing his family like that? A knot of guilt twisted in Stiles's chest. _He had misjudged him from the very beginning._

"...I'm sorry, Derek."

The alpha didn't tear his gaze from the grey timberland ahead of them. Stiles took the opportunity to silently observe the stony face, noting the hint of grief that had crept into his emerald eyes.

"So why did _you_ come?"

The question caught Stiles by surprise. He blinked, sheepishly letting his head drop back down to stare at his feet as they hobbled along.

"I-I told you, I was at the party—"

"Yes, but Scott was there too," Derek cut in, finally glancing down at him. "_He_ knew what your friend looked like, only Scott's a _werewolf;_ he and I could have easily tracked down the body, beads or not. So why'd you _really_ come?"

Stiles gaped at the alpha. _Since when did he become so damn intuitive?_ The teen bit his lip, wincing as he readjusted his hold over his injury.

"…My dad is facing some criticism in the department," He muttered quietly. "With all the unsolved murders and missing reports that have been piling up, he might loose his badge... I thought if I could find Matt and turn him in, then…"

Stiles trailed off, for some reason suddenly unable to form the words to continue.

"...You could help save your dad's job?"

Stiles nodded, pressing his lips together.

"Yeah… I just didn't expect to find Matt _dead."_

* * *

Hey fanfictioners! :) Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! More chapters are on the way soon. Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles was fading.

Derek could tell by the way the teen, who was originally hesitant to simply drape his arm over the alpha's shoulders, now leant heavily against him, his feet hardly lifting off the ground anymore as they trudged forwards. Only hints of red canvas peeked through the layer of dirt covering his sneakers; the result of having dragged them relentlessly through the sodden earth over the course of their travel. Every so often he would stumble, nearly pitching forward to the forest floor below before the werewolf caught him and hiked him back up, each time bearing more of the human's weight.

The most concerning to the alpha was how quiet Stiles had become. His quiet rambling had long since dwindled to a stop as his energy drained, leaving the werewolf silently regretting every time he had told him to shut up; he never imagined that we would ever be dismayed at the teen's lack of incessant jabbering until now. He stared out dourly at the haunting grey woodland, now drained of all color from the sun's final departure from the overcast horizon. Anxiety tickled the back of the alpha's throat as he took in the darkening scenery before him; at the rate they were going, there was no way there were going to make it back in time before dangerous supernatural creatures would start to emerge from the shadows. _Or before..._

Derek's thoughts were interrupted as he felt Stiles's head drop against his shoulder.

"Hey," he said, concern fluttering in his chest. He nudged Stiles's forehead with his chin. "Don't pass out on me."

The teen blinked groggily, his cheek rolling heavily against the alpa's clavicle. The corners of his lips tugged up in a small, sad smile in between his ragged breathing.

"Don' think I c'n promise that, sourwolf."

Stiles was surprised at how slurred his words sounded. He let his head drop a notch further onto Derek's shoulder, the brief smile fading from his lips as he faced the matter at hand with startlingly calm resignation. He knew he wasn't going to make it. The notion had dawned on him when he first set eyes upon his bloodied torso, hanging ominously in the back of his mind and slowly creeping it's way into his forethoughts over the course of their slow journey, despite his wretched efforts to shove it back.

There was no denying it now. He could feel reality pulling away from him as he desperately fought to maintain his hold on consciousness, a task that grew increasingly difficult with every other step he took. Even with Derek keeping him upright, Stiles could feel his body struggling to function as he clumsily maneuvered his way alongside the werewolf with lead-filled limbs. Everything was fuzzy around the edges, muted, as if there were cotton stuffed in his ears and behind his eyes. The pounding in his head was like a sledgehammer against the inside of his temples, driving dizzying waves of nausea down his throat and into his stomach. He couldn't even feel his wound anymore as his sticky fingers trembled over it, too weak to apply pressure anymore. The pain had long since numbed away, leaving nothing but a dull, warm throb in it's place. He was tired. _So tired..._

He felt his hand slip away from his torso and fall to his side, exposing his wound to the frigid air for a few seconds before a larger, much warmer hand suddenly replaced the hold and pressed firmly over the cut. Stiles wrenched his eyes open and looked down, bemused to see what appeared to be the blurry outline of Derek Hale's calloused grip over his abdomen. Then his view was suddenly jerked as the shoulder he was resting on shrugged under his cheek, bucking like a stallion trying to throw it's rider.

"Stiles, you have to stay awake."

Stiles mumbled a half-hearted protest at the gravelly voice above him.

"Mmph… Tired…"

Derek gently shrugged his shoulder again, frowning as he glanced down.

"I know," he breathed, struggling to keep them both walking. "But you gotta focus, Stiles. You need to stay awake, alright?"

With another inconherent mutter of opposition, Stiles begrudgingly let his cheek slide off the werewolf's shoulder, his head bobbing unsteadily he struggled to support the weight on his neck.

Derek's eyebrows knitted together in concern as his gaze swept over the pale face; Stiles looked like he was at the end of his rope. Dark tousles of hair clung to his damp forehead like strands of washed-up seaweed strewn across an ocean shore, the contrast against his drained complexion making the teen look like a ghostly apparition in the silver twilight. His eyes were half-mast and rimmed with plum-wine stains, their usual cinnamon sparkle clouded over with exhaustion. He looked like he was ready to drop at death's door.

Fear unexpectedly squeezed Derek's chest as the last observation darted across his mind; Stiles was annoying. Heck, the kid was the human incarnate of everything that gave him a migraine, but… He didn't want him to _die. _

"Come on, we're almost there," he said, noting with a frown how the encouraging tone he tried to convey fell flat, trampled by the worry bucking behind his ribcage. Stiles closed his eyes, another small, amused smile gracing his lips as Derek tugged him along.

"Liar."

The teen's ambivalent expression deepened as the whisper left his tongue, taking with it his last shred of self-actualization. Even in his muddled state of mind, Stiles knew that even if he managed to keep it together until they got back to the Hale house, he only posed as a detrimental obstacle in their race against the rising moon. The past week, three bodies had been found in the woods of Beacon Hills, each one horribly mauled with dozens of deep lacerations, as if by the claws of an animal… The police department claimed "mountain lion," but Derek and Peter Hale had uttered a much more menacing culprit...

_Alpha pack._

Stiles curled his fingers into the white fabric above the alpha's shoulder, heart sagging with the rest of his shivering body.

"Derek," he panted, struggling to combat the lightheadedness threatening to carry him away. "I'm not g'nna be able to keep this up much longer… You gotta let me go."

The werewolf almost stopped in his tracks as the weak rasp hit his eardrums. He glanced down, puzzlement twisting his features into a deeper-than-usual scowl. _Was the kid serious?_ He opened his mouth to interject, but was beaten to it.

"I see how you keep looking at the horizon," Stiles continued, shaking his head a little. "You're checking to see if we're gonna make it back in time before… B-Before we get company…"

Derek stiffened. _Of course Stiles had noticed._

"Stiles, I'm an alpha," he grumbled flatly. "I can fight off whatever—"

"No. Not a whole pack of alphas, Derek," Stiles cut in, head dipping. A bead of sweat rolled off his nose and plummeted to the ground like a raindrop as he swayed to the side. "Not with me weighing you down… You're good… But you're not that g-good, sourwolf…"

A half-hearted, teasing smile trembled on his lips. Stiles wished he had the energy to lift his head and show it to the alpha, but Derek kept his gaze planted unwaveringly ahead of him. The werewolf didn't trust himself to look down, because it was already difficult enough to keep his current emotions hidden beneath his stony expression without witnessing Stiles's pathetic, doe-eyed,_ stupidly_ altruistic face… _The kid was always willing to sacrifice himself._  
In spite of himself, a small seed of awe unraveled beneath the incredulity in Derek's chest, intertwining with the terror Stiles's words dealt him… Because he knew the human spoke the truth.

"Stiles, I'm not leaving you," Derek stated firmly, tightening his grip around the teen's waist. _Alphas or not, he wasn't leaving him for dead. _

"You're jus' like Scott," Stiles murmured, his cracked voice barely above a whisper. "Always were… You just… Jus…"

Stiles faltered as his energy finally puttered out, robbing the words from his lungs as the wooded clearing spun sickeningly around him, drenching him in a final douse of exhaustion that was too much for his strained body to handle. The pounding in his head intensified, muffling the atmosphere with every dull throb, mixing with waves of numb that washed over his limbs, pricking them with pins and needles. Without warning his head dropped against his chest, blurring the forest floor into a fuzzy palette of rusted browns. He felt his grip on Derek's shoulder slacken, followed by a distant shout of his name before his knees suddenly gave out, ankles rolling beneath his frame as his vision flooded with black and yellow blotches. Stiles felt his arm slip off the werewolf's shoulders as he pitched to the ground like a rag doll, the world tilting and then disappearing altogether.

_"__Stiles!"_

Derek only had a moment's warning after Stiles trailed off before the human suddenly went slack, head dropping with a faint exhale as his knees buckled. The alpha scrambled for purchase on the thin figure, but Stiles had already slipped out of his arms, crumpling to the earth face-down in a terrifyingly still heap.

_"__Shit!_ No, no, no… Stiles!" He muttered desperately, crashing to his knees next to the prone figure. The werewolf quickly grabbed the teen's shoulder and gently pulled him over, his consternation spiking once the unresisting figure was on his back. Stiles was deathly pale, eyes closed and cracked lips parted a fraction, drawing in sips of air that were far too slow and shallow for the werewolf's liking. His gangly limbs were splayed gracelessly around him like a marionette that had been tossed carelessly to the ground, drowning in the black jacket still wrapped around him. Derek hastily pushed the leather aside, eyes widening at the sight underneath.

Stiles's torso was entirely drenched in crimson, as if someone had thrown a bucket of red wine at him. The sodden fabric clung to his abdomen, augmenting the slight rise and fall of his breathing in a sticky, slippery blanket that tinged the crisp air with a sickening copper smell. The alpha pressed two fingers to the human's neck, concern ticking up again at the thready pulse hammering weakly underneath his fingertips.

"Stiles," he said sharply, patting the teen's cheeks. No response. _"Stiles!"_

He tried again and again, each time more frustration worming into his shouts. He swung his leg over the unmoving form and cupped both hands around the human's face, internally freezing as he realized this was exactly how Stiles had held _him_ when he was passed out and dying on the floor from a wolfsbane bullet. He never imagined they would switch roles.

_"__Dammit_ Stiles! I swear to God if you don't wake up, I'll kill you myself!"

The growl tore from his throat a bit louder than intended, but it seemed to do the trick. There was a hitch in Stiles's breathing as his eyes cracked open, revealing two unfocused cinnamon slivers.

"Stiles? Stiles, can you hear me?"

Stiles felt numb. There was a muffled voice coming from somewhere, perhaps from the blurred silhouette blocking out the majorelle sky above him. _Why was he on the ground?_ There was something patting his cheek... It felt good, warm against his icy skin. _He was so tired._ Stiles felt his eyelids flutter shut, the warbled voice sounding more distressed as it floated further away. Then he felt lighter all of a sudden, dizzy as his back was lifted off the ground. The world spun and jerked for a moment before his arms dangled up—_no, down?_— and his nose bumped against something soft and warm. Distantly he thought he heard someone say _"I'm not leaving you"_ before the darkness swallowed him whole.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek's heart plummeted as Stiles laid limply underneath him, eyes glassy and unresponsive before rolling into their sockets and fluttering shut.

"Stiles! Stiles _no!" _He cried angrily, squeezing his calloused grip around the teen's cheeks. _"Dammit,_ you idiot!"

The alpha desperately fought to keep the rising panic in his chest at bay as his gaze flew over the lifeless form beneath him, flickering to the sky uneasily. The twilight had finally bled away, revealing the inky hues of a night sky dotted with the first stars, faintly glimmering with the promise of supernatural threat. _If he were to bolt now, he could get out of the woods before they emerged…_

But Derek didn't move. He couldn't. Instead he took in the pale face before him, his expression creasing softly with guilt.

"I'm not leaving you," he muttered, slipping his hands underneath the limp figure. In a swift, fluid movement, he lifted Stiles easily and slung him over his back, careful not to jostle his wound. Derek braced his hands on the teen's knees and back as he stood up, subconsciously noting how unnaturally light the kid was as he broke into a jog, emerald eyes fixed determinedly in the direction of his house. Already he began to feel Stiles's blood seeping onto his shoulder, staining the dirtied grey fabric of his shirt like a crimson countdown, fueling the alpha's brisk pace. Every other step Stiles's forehead would bump against the small of Derek's back, in sync with the light nudges his dangling arms made against the werewolf's legs, almost as if he were urging him to go faster.

Derek's mind reeled as he charged through the trees, trepidation spewing out of him with every chilled pant. He readjusted his grip on the unconscious teen, bracing for a leap as he came upon a... _Fallen tree?_

A small spark of jubliation ignited in the alpha's chest as he realized it was the same fallen tree where Stiles had discovered the gold necklace, which meant that they were close to home; _If he moved quickly, he could make it back in ten minutes, before any__—_

Derek's small surge of hope was crushed by a distant, blood-chilling howl.

The werewolf froze as the echo swept through the trees, the sound wave ripping through him like a thousand icy daggers.

_Alpha pack._

Derek immediately broke into a sprint, adrenaline flooding his veins as several other howls joined the lone voice, creating a hair-raising chorus that made the air vibrate with the promise of death. Derek cursed under his breath, frantically trying to move quickly without further injuring Stiles, but he knew it was a lost cause.

"Fuck, _no, no, no…!"_

The despaired cry tore from his lips as the howling grew closer, his hypersensitive hearing picking up several pairs of feet flying over the sodden earth, surrounding him in a circled trap. His heart sunk. Stiles had been right; there was no way he would be able to fight them all. _There was no way they were going to make it out alive._

He ran, his pants growing heavier as desperation wriggled into his lungs like a tick burrowing under someone's skin. His eyes caught snippets of blurred figures darting through the trees around him, twigs snapping and leaves crackling with their movements as they grew closer and closer, closing in on him like a noose tightening around a condemned soul's neck. _Faster, Faster—_

_"RRRRAAAGGGH!"_

Derek skidded to a halt, leaves kicking up into air in a swirl as a massive alpha suddenly jumped in front of him with a terrifying roar, fangs jutting from his bloodstained jowls like jagged tusks. Derek stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his feet as he spun around, trying to run in the other direction before another another one darted in his path, her eyes glowing red and lips twisted into a gleeful grin. He backed up, head whipping around the clearing as more figures emerged from the shadows, their scarlet eyes gleaming like hot coals. Desolation wracked his ribcage. _They had been so close._

"Well, look what we have here."

Derek spun around in the direction of the disembodied utterance, the icy voice making his blood run cold. A bare-footed figure stepped forward, her sharp, blackened toenails digging into the earth as she carefully plodded towards him, the silver moonlight illuminating her sylvete frame as she slinked out of the shadows. Derek tightened his grip on Stiles as he stared her down, his fear melting into a stony glare as he met her hungry expression.

_Kali._

"You lost, little pup?" She asked in a sickeningly sweet voice. The other alphas chuckled as her gaze narrowed on Stiles, her lips twisting into a mocking pout. "Looks like your friend is a little worse for wear."

Derek's expression hardened as he took a step back, carefully eyeing the four werewolves surrounding him. Without unlocking his gaze, he bent down and gently maneuvered Stiles off his shoulder, setting the unconscious teen down against the foot of a tree before rising and taking a defensive stance in front of him, facing the alphas with clenched fists. He knew he was no match for them… But he wasn't going to die without a _fight._

The werewolves laughed at his action, their dark cackles bouncing off the surrounding trees, their echoes making it sound like there were dozens of them. Kali crossed her arms, fangs glinting beneath her curled lip.

"Oh, how sweet. Derek Hale protecting his little friend? Cute," she purred, eyes flickering over him hungrily. "And out of character," she added, eyebrow quirking quizzically. "Who would have thought you'd grow into such a... _Soft_ alpha?"

A low growl erupted from Derek's chest. His steely gaze bore into the she-wolf like emerald daggers, daring her to make another move as the other werewolves slowly advanced, circling him impatiently as they awaited their leader's command to attack. Kali eyed him pathetically, a smirk playing at her lips.

"Oh, don't be like that," she cooed, taking a step forward. Her eyes flickered to Stiles, pale and slumped against the gnarled fir. "He's not looking so good… Want us to take him out of his misery?" She suggested coyly. She held up a hand, claws extracted threateningly as she stared the pair down with a malicious grin.

Derek wrinkled his nose in disgust, unsheathing his own claws as another snarl rumbled in his throat.

"Not until you get through me, _bitch,"_ he growled, staring her down with all the abhorrence he could muster. Kali's wicked smile twisted into an ugly sneer, her eyes hardening.

"Have it your way then," she muttered darkly, eyes flickering to her pack members. _"Kill him."_

The chilled air shattered as the werewolves charged forward, their deafening roars erupting through the wooded clearing as Derek let out an intrepid howl, fangs bared as he leapt forward to meet them. The large male alpha was upon him first, swinging a massive fist at his head with enough force to crush his scull, but Derek managed to duck out of the way just in time and slash the muscular figure across the stomach. The alpha reeled backwards as he roared in pain, but Derek only had a split second to whip around before the two other pack members barreled into him. In a tangle of limbs and claws the three crashed to the ground as Kali looked on amusedly, almost looking bored as she observed the show.

Derek struggled for the upper hand as the three rolled on the forest floor, wincing as their claws dug into his shoulders and legs. Arching his back off the ground, he gained purchase as he kicked up his legs and planted a powerful blow to the pair's stomachs, knocking the wind out of their lungs. Before they could make another move, Derek leapt up and grabbed their arms in a flash, snapping them back with a sickening crack. The werewolves howled in agony as he prepared to swipe his claws across their necks, but suddenly a powerful blow struck the back of his head, slamming him to the ground with a grunt of pain. He quickly blinked the stars out of his eyes and scrabbled onto his back, just in time to meet the enraged face of the male alpha he had slashed across the abdomen.

Derek twisted to the side in the nick of time as the alpha's claws swung down, slamming into the dirt where his neck had been a mere millisecond before. With a shout of exertion Derek swung his arm across at lightening speed and clocked the werewolf hard on his temple, sending the burly figure crumpling to the ground with a nauseating crunch. Kali screamed in horror, her bloodcurdling shriek quickly morphing into a howl of outrage as her other two pack members sprung to their feet and pounced for Derek, their enraged cries joining hers in bone-chilling harmony. He scrambled to his feet and staggered backwards, yelping as the two swiped viciously at him, their claws ripping through his shirt and raking his chest.

_"Finish him!"_ Screamed Kali, her eyes wide with rage.

Derek roared in pain, gritting his teeth as he tried dogging their blows. _Must protect._ Mustering all his energy, he whipped his leg out underneath the pair, sprawling the werewolves onto their backs. Before they could recover, he swung back his arms and brought them down hard, ramming his claws into their necks. Their shrieks quickly cut off by wet squelches as blood spurted from the five holes implanted in their windpipes, splattering across their faces like spilled paint.

_"RRRAAGGHHH!"_

Before he had time to react, Kali struck the side of his face at incredible speed, her supernatural strength throwing him across the forest floor before he crashed against the base of a tree. Derek grunted as he scrabbled to his hands and knees, but the she-wolf was already upon him again, snatching his arm in a terrifyingly strong grip. In the blink of an eye she swiveled around and threw the werewolf to the ground again, whipping around in time to land another blow to his back. Kali lunged forward as Derek yelped in pain, grabbing the alpha by the collar of his shirt and dragging him up harshly, slamming him against a tree by his neck.

_"You fucking BASTARD!"_ She screamed, her face contorted with rage.

She tightened her grip, eyes bulging with fury as he held him there, watching him squirm. Derek struggled in her grip as he fought for air, trying to blink away the black dots dancing across his vision. His feet scrabbled uselessly against the root of the tree as the she-wolf leaned in, her expression hardening into an eerily-stony facade as she brought her lips up to his ear.

"I'm going to _kill_ you, Derek Hale," she whispered, her sickly sweet breath tickling the nape of his neck. "I'm going to kill you slowly and painfully, and then I'm going to kill your little _friend_ over there," she uttered darkly, eyes flickering to Stiles hungrily before withdrawing her head so she could stare Derek square in the eyes. She smirked triumphantly as she drank in his pained expression, bringing a clawed finger up to stroke his cheek as he gasped for air. Derek's vision swam, Kali's face wobbling in and out of focus as she wrapped her bony fingers tighter around his windpipe. _No,_ he thought desperately. Her lips curled into a sadistic sneer.

"I'm going to patch him up, and then kill him even more slowly and painfully than I'm going to kill _you,"_ she spat, teeth clenched in an ugly grimace. "Do you _hear_ me, Derek Hale? I'm going to make that little bitch wish that he had never been—"

Suddenly she stopped, her words cutting off mid-sentence with a guttural choke as her eyes widened in surprise. Derek's gaze flickered over her gaping face in bewilderment as her grip suddenly slackened, small bubbles of blood spilling over her bottom lip and dribbling down her chin. A second later she collapsed, crumpling to the ground as he fell to his knees with her, gasping for air. He blinked hard, clearing the fog in his oxygen-deprived brain as his eyes settled upon her still form. There were five puncture marks on her back, mirroring the ones decorating her navel. The stab wounds oozed tiny scarlet rivers, their streams channeling into a pool of blood quickly forming underneath her still form.

Shocked and panting hard, Derek lifted his head, eyes widening further as his gaze landed on the figure of Scott McCall, who was staring back at him with his hand still outstretched, claws covered in Kali's blood.

* * *

Hey readers! :) Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! I really appreciate the feedback. Next chapter will be up soon; meanwhile, just two more episodes of our beloved Teen Wolf to tide us over! Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	5. Chapter 5

"Derek!"

Scott stared wide-eyed at his pack brother as the breathless cry escaped his lips, mind reeling as he took in the werewolf's crouched stance next to Kali's crumpled, blood-drenched form. His gaze flickered down to his crimson-stained claws, fingers trembling as he realized the staggering weight of what he had just done.

_You killed an alpha._

The thought flickered through his mind like a flying arrow, tearing through all other thoughts in his registry. He had _killed_ someone. Sick dread crept up his spine like a slug inching along the curves of his vertebrae. His gaze jumped from his bloodied fingertips to Kali's unmoving form, her sightless eyes pulled wide as they stared up at the sky, shocked expression still etched into her face. _Murderer. _He struggled to mute the intensifying heartbeat pounding against his eardrums, sending waves of sick dread shooting down into his stomach. _No,_ s_he was going to kill Derek, _he thought desperately, sucking in a deep breath through his nose. It was kill or _be_ killed, an act of self-defense. _Defense for—_

"Scott?"

The younger werewolf snapped out of his shock at the sound of Derek's incredulous pant, the ringing in his ears snapping back into white noise like a vacuum. Immediately Scott rushed forward, wrapping a steadying hand around the alpha's sleeve as he straightened up. Derek rose, nose wrinkling slightly as his gaze flickered to Scott's hold before ripping his arm out of the grip, eyeing the younger werewolf with an oddly cold expression.

"Derek! A-are you okay? I heard your howl," Scott stated breathlessly, tentatively withdrawing his hold. "I-I couldn't find you guys, but…" Then he paused, freezing in place as realization hit him over the head like an anvil, a cold dread suddenly clutching his stomach. "Where's…"

The werewolf trailed off as Derek took a step forward and roughly brushed past him, steely emerald gaze fixed determinedly ahead without so much as a flicker in his direction. Scott blinked, mouth dropping open slightly in bewilderment as he awkwardly stood in place, gaping after the older alpha. Anger momentarily doused his tense frame, but it was immediately extinguished by a horrified gasp as his gaze followed his mentor's tall frame across the clearing to an old spruce sprinkled with soft mint-green moss, where the answer to his unfinished question lay.

A gangly, broken figure was slumped against the foot of the gnarled tree, head bowed and chin pressed against his barely-moving chest. His chocolate hair glistened in the misty low-light, illuminating the sheen of sweat slathering the dark brown locks against his forehead, mirroring the dewy film over his pale cheeks. His skinny legs were folded awkwardly like a fawn's, his muddied converse half-buried in the blanket of rust-colored leaves at his feet. One red-stained hand rested palm-up on the ground by his side, the other laid lifelessly over his blood-drenched torso, which glistened like a crimson bog beneath a familiar-looking leather jacket.

Scott couldn't breathe. _No, nonono—_ Not Stiles_,_ _anybody_ but Stiles. He jerked forward, kicking a spray of earth into the air as he stumbled towards the crumpled form of his friend — his _best_ friend — who was lifelessly sprawled on the forest floor, soaked in blood. _There was too much blood, too much…_

"N-No, God, _Stiles!"_

The anguish ripped from his chest in a pained cry as he crashed to his knees beside Derek, who was already crouched in front of the still form, pressing two fingers to the human's pale neck.

Scott scrabbled around the alpha to get a closer look at his friend's unconscious form, gingerly reaching out a trembling hand to brush the damp hair off the human's forehead. Stiles looked even worse up close; dark purple bruises settled in the delicate half-moon folds beneath his eyes, like dirtied berry-stained crescents beneath his ebony lashes, set apart in stark contrast with his ashen pallor. Even his lips, usually bubblegum pink curves constantly in motion with his never-ceasing chatter, were now still and pale. Tiny puffs of breath few and far apart spilled through a small gap in between the cracked slivers, morphing into small swirls of silver mist once they hit the frigid air; it was the only thing besides the faint "_thu-thump"_ of his heartbeat that convinced Scott that he wasn't _dead._

"Derek, w-what _happened?"_ He demanded, unable to tear his gaze away from his friend. His voice cracked in an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak at the end, but he couldn't care less at the moment. His hands hovered over his friend's boneless form, afraid to touch the fragile figure beneath their fingertips. _Was Stiles wearing…?_

Then a large hand was on Scott's shoulder, pushing him back away from Stiles with a firm shove. He lurched backwards and lashed a hand out behind him for balance, plunging his bloodstained fingers into the cold earth as he ripped his gaze up, startled. Derek's eyes were two unreadable emerald storms focused unwaveringly on the prone form before him, eyebrows pulled down in vexation and lips clamped firmly together, as if he were fighting to keep something from slipping out between them. Without so much as a glance in Scott's direction, he slipped his hands underneath Stiles's limp body and effortlessly swung him over his back, executing the action with more gentleness than one might imagine possible from the rugged alpha.

"Derek," Scott stuttered, scrambling to his feet as the older alpha rose and began to turn away. _"Derek!"_ He tried again, bewilderment and desperation making a growl cut into his shout. _"Answer_ me! What—"

"He was _stabbed!"_

Derek whirled around, spitting out the venom-laced sentence as he stared Scott in the eye for the first time since his arrival, fury lacing his cold gaze. The young werewolf froze and bit his tongue, startled by his mentor's sudden outburst. But before he could utter a single syllable in return, Derek readjusted his hold on Stiles and turned back around without another word, taking off at a brisk pace towards the East. Scott immediately followed suit, a million questions crashing against his scull in a whirlwind of adrenaline that wriggled down his throat, wrapping around his windpipe like a steel vice.

"Wait, _Derek!_ _STOP!_ W-what—"

_"Don't_ follow me," The alpha stated sharply, briefly slowing his pace to toss a stern look back towards the teen at his heels. Scott's mind reeled as his eyes flickered over Derek's shrewd expression. _What was his problem?_

"There are two bodies up ahead, one is Matt Kishby's. Call the Sheriff, make sure they're taken care of. Peter will know what to do with the alphas."

Scott stumbled to a halt, feet pressing into the soft forest dirt as his mouth opened and closed silently, unable to form any words to convey the knots the recent turn of events had tied in his stomach. He whipped his gaze around the clearing as if some magical solution to everything hid in the canopies above, breath hitching in his throat as he silently pleaded with Derek, eyes flickering to Stiles, the bloodied werewolf corpses by his feet, and back to Stiles.

"B-but," he started, heels digging into the earth as he struggled to stay put. "Derek, no. I need—"

"I know," Derek growled, catching the teen's despondent glance at the figure draped lifelessly over his back. "There's no time to explain, I need to get him back to my house, _now." _He made to turn around again, but caught Scott's terrified, puppy-dog gaze and paused, seemingly making a decision.

"He'll be fine, Scott."

And with that the alpha turned on his heels and broke into a smooth run across the wooded clearing, just as soon as the grumbled phrase left his lips. Scott stood solemnly, feeling as if he was made of glass as he watched the figure he trusted so much dash into the trees, Stiles's limp form flopping against his back with every other step until the the darkness swallowed the pair completely. Hands trembling, he clumsily dug his phone out of his pocket and hit the three keys that he had pressed far too many times the past year.

_He'll be fine._

* * *

_He'll be fine._

Derek ran the three words over and over in his mind like a chanted mantra as he wove between the trees, hands clasped firmly around the lanky figure as if his mere grip was the sole proprietor keeping the teen's heartbeat thrumming against his ribcage.

"Just hang on, almost there," he breathed, the words slipping out over his tongue in a spew of condensed mist. He wasn't sure if he meant it for Stiles or himself.

In the distance police sirens wailed their woeful song, sounding almost like a howl as they neared the edge of the woods where Scott was waiting. Derek huffed a breath, shoving the name out of his mind. He flew past the shadowed elms and scattered tufts of huckleberry at his feet, forceful strides kicking up sprays of dirt and soiled leaves in their wake as the house finally came into view, a towering silhouette of hope against a starry-skied backdrop. Relief flared in Derek's chest like a kindled fire, roaring beneath his sternum and exiting his throat in a blithe exhale as he trotted up the weathered front steps, the burnt wood creaking under his weight. Peter had wanted him to move out; to find an apartment or newly-furbished loft to live in, but Derek didn't want to. He grew up in this house, and tragic history or not… It was his _home._

He hiked Stiles up further onto his shoulders as he dug his keys out of his pocket and fumbled to open the door. The charred oak gave way with a rough squeak, swinging forcefully away from the warped frame as the alpha stumbled inside, flicking up the light switch as he wildly scanned the large space for a place to set Stiles down.

The overhead light flickered to life, illuminating the empty loft in a warm glow. A rustic brick fireplace was embedded in the wall across from a cushioned leather couch and matching armchair, at which a pale blue mug rested at it's foot, the morning coffee inside long since gone cold. A small dining table was situated by one of the front windows, which was smudged in a film of smoky charcoal residue. No amount of meticulous cleaning could stop small bits of rubble from shaking loose from the ceilings on windy days, when they cascaded down and littered the corners of the room where the weathered hardwood floor met the chipped laminate of the charred walls. Derek's mother had once picked the color of the paint; honeysuckle.

Derek strode forward, frowning at the thin film of dust blanketing the floor as he grabbed a folded threadbare blanket off the back of the couch and shook it open, laying it out near the fireplace by tugging the corners taught with the tip of his boot. Carefully he crouched down and slipped his hands over Stiles's back, gently shifting the human over into his arms before laying him down softly on the stonewashed blue wool. The teen's neck rolled limply over the curve of the alpha's palm as he gingerly slid his hand out from underneath Stiles's damp hair, setting the kid's head down gently. His eyes flickered worriedly over the slack face before darting down to his blood-soaked midsection, the creases stretching across his forehead deepening.

The werewolf quickly straightened up, ripping his gaze from the pale form sprawled below him as he spun on his heels and quickly strode across the floor to the kitchen, heavy steps creaking into the soot-stained wood and echoing off the spacious walls. He made a beeline for the cabinet under the sink, where he kept the first aid kit. The alpha thrust a hand into the dusty compartment and pulled out a basket piled high with assorted antiseptics, gauze, and stitching tools, simultaneously grabbing some clean washcloths from a stack on the counter. Being a werewolf, he didn't need to have medical supplies on hand… But he had invested in it a little less than a year ago, when Scott came into his life, bringing a very _human_ Stiles along with him into the dangerous world of supernatural brutality they faced all too often. The kit had sat in its designated little cupboard underneath the sink since then, gathering dust in case something should ever happen… He had hoped that he would never need to use it.

Derek hurried back over to Stiles with supplies in hand, setting the basket down beside him as he dropped to his knees and maneuvered his jacket off the limp form, fingers fumbling with the familiar leather. He slipped the garment off, hesitating a split second as he traced his thumb over the soft black material worn down with use over the years, now blood-stained with a large gash in the sleeve. He let out a small sigh and tossed it to the side.

The alpha gingerly lifted up Stiles's crimson-drenched shirt; the fabric pried apart from his skin with a faint wet sound, partly-congealed blood clinging to the soaked cotton in sticky tendrils as he pulled the tee up to the teen's ribcage, nose crinkling at the sharp tang of copper that stung the air and assaulted his nostrils. Stiles's torso was completely slathered in the viscous red fluid, drenching his pale stomach in what resembled a nauseating mess of dark raspberry syrup. The alpha quickly doused a towel with a watered-down peroxide solution and quickly wiped down the human's pale skin, taking extra care around the edges of the long gash that raked down across his flesh before reaching for a package of antiseptic wipes.

Derek bit his lip as he gingerly cleaned the wound, dabbing the tip of the cloth into the crevice of the cut. He felt strange crouched over Stiles, tending to his injuries; he had never been this _close_ to the kid, let alone in contact with him on such an intimate level. There had always been some kind of mutual invisible wall between them, never to be broken unless he needed to shove the idiot up against a wall as a warning not to push his buttons— But Stiles _always_ pushed his buttons.  
Not in the way that he claimed, with the blame on the human's constant chatter and ADHD-fueled antics… Rather, it was the way the kid's heart blipped in fear whenever Scott was in trouble. The way he never hesitated to jump into danger himself to save another soul, despite the fact that he was the most mortal of them all. The way his eyes glimmered with sadness when Scott wasn't looking, but how he pulled a goofy grin at the last second just before his friend turned to face him.

The way he made Derek feel that maybe there was good in this world after all.

"Mmph…"

Derek was yanked from his thoughts as the figure below him shifted slightly beneath him, face creasing in pain as the alpha pressed into his wound.

"Stiles!" He breathed, relief flooding his chest. The teen's eyebrow's twitched a fraction before smoothing out again, head flopping to the side. He drew in a feeble breath, cut short as a weak cough wracked his lungs.

"Easy, easy. You're okay," Derek said gently, surprised at how soft his tone was. He kept one hand placed firmly over Stiles's wound as he reached up with the other, lightly patting the human's cheek.

"Stiles? Come on."

_Open those pretty brown eyes of yours._

Stiles slowly drew in another breath, fingers twitching slightly against Derek's knee as another soft groan escaped his lips. His eyelids fluttered, struggling to rise until they finally cracked open, his whisky-colored irises barely visible between his thick lashes. He blinked sluggishly, seemingly uncomprehending of the world around him as he weakly shifted his head up, gaze glassy and far away.

"Stiles, hey. Can you hear me?"

It took a few moments for the teen to respond, a small spark of clarity leaking into his unfocused eyes.

"Mmph… Der'?"

The smallest smile flickered on Derek's lips.

"That's it, wake up."

Stiles blinked again, eyes screwing shut with a weak whine as the pain leaked into his registry, exacerbated as the alpha continued to press into his wound.

"Hey'm… _Gentle,_ sour'olf…"

Derek rolled his eyes, giving another firm dab into the cut before wiping his hands, watching as Stiles's gaze wandered lazily around the room, gradually becoming more aware.

"Y-you… You brought me back."

"Of course I did."

Stiles blinked groggily, craning his neck forward in an effort to look down at the situation on his abdomen. Almost immediately he wrinkled his nose, eyes pinching shut with a moan of disgust as his head flopped back down against the blanket.

"Ohhh, man that is _nasty…"_ He whined, voice cracking as a slight sheen of cold sweat broke out across his forehead. His stomach rolled. "Think I'm g'nna be sick…"

"Don't you dare," growled Derek, uncapping a tube of numbing solution as he eyed the teen wearily. "...This is going to hurt."

Stiles barely had time to register the warning before a pair of fingers prodded his injury with the ointment, sending a wave of agony ripping through his frame. His back arched against the ground as he gritted his teeth, a strangled scream choking in his throat. He was vaguely aware of a firm hand on his shoulder keeping him grounded as he writhed, the pain sharpening his consciousness into a needle-fine point, only to render it dull again when Derek finally finished and withdrew his hand. Stiles went slack, loosing control over his muscles as the pain receded, leaving him dazed and lightheaded, panting underneath the palm still resting on his shoulder. His vision darkened at the edges, wobbling out of focus as warped colors bloomed and danced like a kaleidoscope.

Derek's expression knitted together in concern as Stiles's head listed to the side, eyes drooping and going unfocused after he finished applying the salve to his injury. He had gone a shade paler, seemingly teetering on the edge of awareness. The alpha squeezed the teen's shoulder gently, watching as the human swallowed weakly, the muscles in his milky neck flexing against the worn blue wool.

"Hey, you with me?"

"Mm."

The alpha frowned. He reached forward and cupped his hands around the human's pale cheeks, bringing Stiles's head up so that he met his gaze. The teen blinked tiredly at him, lids half-mast over his unfocused cinnamon gaze. The tiniest smile tugged at the edge of the his lips.

"You're cute when yer' worried..."

Derek blinked in surprise at the utterance of the human's remark. His mouth fell open a touch, but before he could think of a defensive threat, Stiles's eyes rolled into the back of his head, sagging bonelessly in Derek's hold with a faint exhale as he passed out.

The werewolf stared, eyes flickering wildly over the teen's slack face as he realized his mouth was still ajar, quickly snapping it shut again. He huffed out a long sigh, pursing his lips slightly as he gently let Stiles's head fall back against the threadbare wool.

_This kid was going to be the death of him._

* * *

Hey readers! :) Alas, we begin the gut-wrenching wait for season 5! *cries* I may have to re-watch our beloved Teen Wolf from season 1 to tide me over until then (that, and lots of fanfiction of course)! Thank you so much for your lovely comments; reviews are _greatly_ appreciated! Cheers to a fall/winter filled with stories of whump, bromance, and werewolves! New chapters will be up soon. Love, The Typewriter Girl. :)

P.S (Let's just take a moment to appreciate the season 4 finale and that long, love-filled stare Stiles gave Derek before finally turning away and leaving him... And the fact that Wolf!Derek is now canon!) :D


	6. Chapter 6

"And they're all… _Werewolves?"_

Scott swallowed, eyes darting over the bloodied corpses again before meeting the Sheriff's uneasy expression. The man's overtaxed forehead wrinkles begged him to laugh at the question, to say "just kidding" and admit that it was all a big joke. Scott wished that he could.

"Yes, Mr. Stilinski... They're alphas."

"And they were killed by… Derek _Hale_, you said?" The sheriff questioned, lowering his voice as he met Scott's anxious gaze.

"Yes, like I said… In self-defense," The teen responded, shifting on his feet. He bit his lip, casting his gaze to the ground as he sucked in a shaky breath. "E-except Kali… T-that was… That was me. I killed her."

The sheriff blinked, mouth falling open a touch as he looked at Scott, the kid he considered to be his second son, in quiet disbelief.

"I-I, I didn't _want_ to kill her," Scott stuttered, wrenching his gaze up to meet the man's eyes. Guilt poured out of every pore. "I— It just, I _had_ to. She was going to kill Derek if I didn't do something and I couldn't, I-I couldn't just—"

"Whoa, Scott. _Scott,_ shh… It's okay," The sheriff said softly, cutting into the teen's panicked speech as he gently laid his hands on his shoulders. He held the teen firmly as he met the terrified chocolate eyes with a steady gaze. The kid's expression was a twisted canvas of guilt, shame, and fear. He had seen that look too many times before, in the victims he had encountered who were forced to kill another in self-defense. But _Scott…_ The Sheriff sighed, a pang of despair emanating beneath his sternum. _The kid was too damn young._

"It's okay," he repeated gently. "You are _not_ to blame for this, you hear me? You are _not_ at fault."

Scott swallowed, nodding silently. Despite everything that was going on, he couldn't help but think of Stiles. Of all the chaos and bloodshed that had happened —Matt, Derek and the alpha's, even killing Kali with his bare hands— nothing compared to the way he was worried about his best friend at the moment, who he had last seen slung over Derek's back unconscious and bleeding. Nothing compared to the guilt he felt for not being there with him.

"Scott?"

He blinked, gaze snapping back into focus on a worried-looking John Stilinski.

"Are you okay, Scott?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, sorry," he muttered, nodding vigorously to prove his point. The sheriff looked unconvinced, but withdrew his hold from his shoulders anyway as he casted a grim gaze over the bloodstained clearing, which was already being taped off as a police scene. He sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead as if his weathered fingers could somehow erase the lines that years of heartache and brutality had etched into his skin, made deeper by the recent months of twisted supernatural killings. He looked to Scott again, his eyes pinched at the sides.

"Well, the forensic team will probably declare these as another mountain lion killing. I'll clear you for questioning, so you have nothing to worry about, okay?"

Scott nodded again, a small weight lifting off his shoulders.

"Thank you," he said earnestly, heart welling with appreciation before faltering again, sinking in grief. "And, um... Derek found Matt too... His body is up that way," he added quietly, pointing towards the East. The Sheriff followed his direction, eyes widening in shock.

"Matt," he repeated, eyes flickering over Scott's face. "Matt Kishby...?"

Scott nodded silently, casting his gaze to the leaf-covered forest floor. The Sheriff looked to the sky as he bit his lip, eyes seemingly at war with some invisible being in the sky.

"Jesus…" He muttered softly. He blew out a long puff of air between his lips, running a hand through his hair before turning to Scott again. "Well thanks for letting me know, Scott... I'll send a team up there. They'll want to ask you more questions, but I'll try to convince them to keep it short. Jesus..."

"Thanks, Mr. Stilinksi," Scott returned. "But… I need to ask a favor."

The Sheriff looked at Scott curiously, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Uh, sure. But that depends on what you need, Scott."

"When the bodies are transferred to the morgue, Peter Hale needs to be let in to look at them," He said, looking up carefully. Catching the Sheriff's almost comically-confused expression, he quickly continued. "I called him while you were on your way. He needs to do a binding ritual on the bodies before they're buried, because they're alphas… It ensures that they won't regenerate and come back to life," he finished, flashing a pained smile as he nervously awaited the man's verdict. He also silently willed him not to have a stroke over this added fun fact about werewolves, which was a concept he had only recently come to accept.

The sheriff blinked, mouth falling open a touch as he looked to the side. A pause. And then he pursed his lips, jerking his head in tiny little nods.

"Right, Peter Hale…" He muttered. "The guy who died… and then didn't _stay_ dead," he sighed, adding another exasperated mutter about "supernatural beings" and "never understand all your crazy law-defying antics" before casting his gaze to the sky again. It was another minute before he spoke, finally making a decision.

"Alright, granted." He said, returning his tired gaze to Scott's appreciative nod. "The bodies are going straight to the morgue once they're finished up here. I'd call Peter and tell him to meet you here, that way I can _personally_ escort him to the lab so that he doesn't run into any trouble." His expression softened, flickering over the teen's face a moment before he continued. "And you should go home and get some rest, Scott. You've been through a lot today."

"I'm afraid he won't get to do that quite yet."

The pair turned around, coming face-to-face with Peter Hale, who was sauntering towards them in all his V-neck glory.

"Peter," stated Scott, stepping forward in surprise. "Why are you—"

"Please, Scott. You don't _really_ think I'd skip an opportunity to see my worst enemies torn apart in the spot where they were _slain?"_ The werwolf mused, a sly grin creeping across his lips. "Waiting until they're in the morgue is like going to see the Mona Lisa in a dark alleyway instead of a beautifully-lit wall at The Louvre."

The Sheriff wrinkled his nose in disgust, taking a stance head-on towards the ex-alpha.

"Scott says that you need to, er…" He trailed off, eyebrows knitting together.

"Yes, the binding ritual," Peter finished for him, eyes gleaming in amusement. "And you will take me and little Scott there personally, was that right? How congenial of you. Werewolf hearing, it's a marvelous thing," he finished, cupping a hand around his ear with a smirk.

"Whoa, hold on," Scott cut in, looking desperately to the werewolf. "_Me?_ I'm not coming with you, I need to—"

"Oh, but you _are,"_ cooed Peter, clicking his tongue in mock sympathy. "I need _two_ people to complete the ritual, one to read the mantra and one to lace the wolfsbane around their chakras. Don't worry, you'll be doing the reading, of course." He turned to Scott, his expression darkening into a challenge. "Unless you have somewhere to go?

Scott glanced nervously at the Sheriff. During his interrogation he had left out the part where the man's only son was in mortal danger and currently under the supposed care and supervision of Derek Hale, the werewolf who just slaughtered three alphas. He knew Mr. Stilinski would abandon the crime scene in an instant to rush to his son's side— and judging by the way Stiles had been so fervent about helping him on cases lately, Scott didn't think that was in the Sheriff's best interests right now. Stiles would kill him if he found at that _he_ was responsible for his dad loosing his position. He couldn't give away that anything was amiss.

Scott sighed, looking a Peter scornfully as he made up his mind. _Stiles was going to be okay_, he mentally told himself. He was going to be okay until he got there, as soon as he finished the job with Peter. He was going to be okay with Derek. He trusted Derek. Maybe Stiles's dad didn't, but _Scott_ trusted him.

"No," replied Scott quietly. "I have no where to go. I'll come with you."

"Good," replied Peter, flashing a bone-chilling grin at him. "Now if this is too _gory_ for you, by all means, you can go wait in the police car," he suggested coyly, smirking at Scott. For once, Scott didn't care. He was too emotionally spent to bite back. Peter was right anyway; he didn't want to see the bodies anymore.

"Thanks," he muttered flatly, spinning on his heels to trudge towards the Sheriff's Crown Victoria.

"Scott, wait."

The werewolf paused, looking back to see the Sheriff stepping towards him. His expression was pinched with faint worried lines.

"Hey, uh, I can't seem to get a hold of Stiles," he said, eyes glancing around the trees as if his son was somewhere hidden amongst them. "Have you heard from him?"

Scott's heart dropped into his stomach like a lead weight.

"Uh, no… Er, sorry Sheriff," he replied, silently praying that his lie wasn't obvious. He had never been so thankful that Stiles's dad couldn't hear heartbeats like he could. The Sheriff bought it, his expression faltering a little in disappointment.

"Hm. Okay, well just let me know if you do?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

"Thanks, Scott," replied Mr. Stilinski. "If you need anything, let me know." He pulled a quick, sad smile before clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly and spinning on his heels to return to the crime scene. Scott watched him tread across the wooded clearing to speak to the other officers, feeling like a shit and a half. He had just lied to the man he considered to be his second father, all because he wasn't there in time to help his friend. That was what it boiled down to, and he knew it. Scott sighed again, his gaze wandering over to Peter, who was standing by the police tape with a sick smile on his face, admiring the gruesome bodies before him as if they were works of art on display. The teen wrinkled his nose in disgust, feeling sick as he turned around to walk towards the police car. Just as he was getting in, he heard Peter hum in approval.

"Looks like Derek finally did something right."

* * *

There was a crackling sound.

That much, Stiles knew. The world came back to him slowly, strung together in small, muted fragments. _Dark._ He was floating— _no, _he was on something…_ Soft?_ Warm. His scull felt like it was filled with lead, bearing down against his temples in what felt like the worst migraine of his life, coupled with a dull ache that stretched across his torso and throughout his limbs. _What was… Was he dead?_ No, he was breathing. He could feel his cheek smooshed against something— And then there was the crackling, as if someone was toying with tissue paper between their fingers somewhere near him. With tremendous difficulty, Stiles slowly pried his eyelids open, swallowing thickly as he groggily blinked the world into focus, squinting past the pain and brightness that it presented. It was a few moments before the blurry filter fogging his vision dissipated enough for him to make sense of his surroundings.

He was on the floor, lying on a worn blue blanket that felt thick and scratchy, as if it was made of wool. A few feet in front of him was a weathered brick fireplace, burning slowly with sunset-orange flames that sizzled and popped gently as they licked the charred oak logs on which they perched. _So that was where the crackling came from._ The fire's fingers were short, dancing on blackened chunks of wood— _how long had he been laying here?_

With a jolt Stiles attempted to sit up, only to crash back down again with a weak yelp when his stomach muscles protested violently.

"Fffffuck…!" He hissed through gritted teeth, eyes screwing shut as he panted through the new waves of pain ripping through his abdomen. _Holy fucking shit._ He blinked hard, clearing the stars from his vision as he fumbled for purchase on the blanket with trembling hands. He let himself recover for a few moments before carefully inching his way up on his elbows, breath hitching with the effort until he was at angle able to look down at his midsection, pausing when he noticed the clean white tee he was wearing wasn't his own shirt. He swallowed dryly again, struggling to get his muddled memory in order as he gingerly lifted the shirt with his fingertips, wincing as he spied what lay underneath the cotton.

A long gash stretched across his milky torso, held together by what must have been two dozen neatly-sewn stitches. The glossy skin beneath the wound emanated an irritated watermelon hue, matching the faint pink stains smudged unceremoniously across his pale skin, as if something red and sticky had been wiped away...

_Like his blood._

The thought acted like a bullet, ripping through the fog clouding his brain and puncturing his senses as his memories suddenly came flooding back, barreling into his mind all at once. _The woods— Matt's body, blood. The assassin —the knife— blood. Pain. Cold… Leave me—_

_Derek._

_Blood._

Stiles's vision blurred as the imagery assaulted his mind, overwhelming him with a surge of post-trauma anxiety that stuck it's fingers down his throat and strangled his gag reflex, showering him in an heavy douse of vertigo. He clumsily yanked the shirt back down over his injury, head bobbing unsteadily to the side as he fought desperately not to be sick, his elbows threatening to give out underneath him. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead as his muddied senses went into overdrive, pulling the plug on his short burst of adrenaline and making his muscles slacken, sending him pitching to the side before he could stop himself.

To his surprise, Stiles never felt himself hit the floor. Instead, somewhere on the edge of his muddled awareness he registered what felt like two large hands grabbing him by the shoulders just before he face-planted into the weathered hardwood.

"Idiot."

Stiles vaguely comprehended the gruff murmur as he was gently guided into a sitting position, the world spinning around him as the pair of hands firmly wrapped around his half-limp body, holding him in place for a moment before two pillows were suddenly shoved behind his back. The human let his head fall back against them as the warm grip on his shoulders disappeared for a moment, giving him an opportunity to blink the black dots from his vision as he tried to choke down his nausea. He tried to open his mouth and say something —a sarcastic remark or wild questioning, he wasn't sure— but his tongue was too thick and dry against his parched throat to cooperate.

"Drink."

Stiles lurched his head forwards, blearily prying his eyes open. He came face-to-face with a glass of water, held up in front of his nose by a scowling —_but relieved-looking?_— Derek Hale. Right. _Derek brought him back…_ The teen blinked in surprise, suddenly embarrassed. His eyes flickered wearily around his surroundings as he silently took the cup, his hand subconsciously moving over his injury.

He was in Derek's old, burnt-out home. It was tidy, with the exception of the blackened edges of the walls where the paint cracked and peeled, settling in little flaked piles in the corners of the room. A few pieces of simple, rustic-looking art had been placed over the more damaged parts of the laminate, just as the few pieces of furniture in the room strategically covered the worst spots of the charred hardwood floor. Stiles glanced at Derek as he brought the glass to his lips, notching how the werewolf was crouched beside him with one heel touching the leather armchair behind him, as if he had been sitting in it prior to his waking. Stiles immediatly banished the thought, dubious that Derek would ever show that much concern— until his eyes fell upon the folded newspaper to the alpha's right, opened to a middle page alongside a white bistro mug half-full with cooled coffee. _Huh._

It wasn't until the water trickled down his sandpaper throat that Stiles realized how thirsty he was. No surprise, really, considering how much blood he must have lost. He greedily gulped down the cool liquid, reveling in the soothing way it cascaded down his parched tongue until the glass was suddenly taken from him.

"Hey, that's enough," Derek growled, wrenching it from the teen's fingers. Stiles looked like a wounded puppy as the drink was pulled away from him, his hand still hovering in mid-air. "You're going to make yourself sick."

Stiles looked down sheepishly. Derek paused, a small pang of guilt softening his expression as he noticed the tips of the human's ears turning pink. He pursed his lips, letting out a small sigh through his nose. He tried a different approach.

"How are you feeling?"

Stiles glanced up, meeting the werewolf's gaze with fatigued, red-rimmed eyes.

"Like I could'sleep for a hun'red years," he replied, internally wincing at how hoarse his voice sounded. It was as if his vocal chords had been run through a shredder, then laid out to dry on a hot oven rack before put back by his larynx. He cleared his throat, to no avail other than making his wound protest in pain again.

"No surprise there, considering you left half your insides back in the woods," the alpha stated dryly, eyeing Stiles's torso wearily. Stiles was quiet, his duller-than-usual whisky eyes glued straight ahead as he lightly curled his long fingers over his abdomen, seemingly lost in thought. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped as his gaze snapped into focus, settling on something just past Derek's hip. His expression faltered, eyes filling with a sudden sadness.

"Your jacket…" He mumbled, unmoving. The faintest scent of guilt rolled off him.

Derek glanced behind him, a twinge of disappointment knotting his stomach as his gaze fell upon his trademark leather harley, bloodstained and crumpled by the foot of his armchair. _Oh._ There was a large gash in the sleeve left by the assassin's arrow, leaving the fabric shredded in a crimson-stained mess that only Lydia-level embroidery skills could repair. It looked smaller —odd— lying so disheveled in a heap on the floor. It was his father's jacket.

Derek let his eyes flicker sadly over the familiar bundle a few more moments before silently turning back to Stiles, meeting the teen's wide eyes for a split second before averting his gaze to the far corner of the room.

"It's just a jacket," he said flatly, standing up. Stiles looked up at him, remorse sewing a new pain his already-aching stomach. He didn't buy the werewolf's remark for a second. He began to try to maneuver himself into a standing position, but stopped when Derek caught the motion and stared him down with a classic Hale death-glare.

"Stay there."

"Wait, what about… W-what about Matt?" Stiles questioned, eyes worried and unwavering from Derek's emerald gaze. "A-and the alphas, did you—"

"They're taken care of," stated Derek flatly, pausing to toss a quick glance back at Stiles. "Now _stay."_

Stiles deflated, letting himself lean back against the pillows again with a half-hearted grumbled protest that sounded suspiciously like "now look who's giving dog orders" as the alpha treaded out of the room. _What did "taken care of" mean?_ He took his solitude as an opportunity to observe his surroundings, since now everything was actually in focus. He was propped up against a leather couch, one that matched the armchair next to it. They smelled new. To his right there was a potted bamboo palm placed by a large garden window stained with blackened corners. He couldn't see much beyond the pane except the inky silhouette of the trees against a pitch-black night sky, speckled with tiny stars. Snowflakes drifted down few and far apart; judging by the sparse veil of white scattered across the wooded clearing, they had just started falling.

Stiles turned around as he heard Derek's footsteps trudging back over to where he sat.

"How long have I been here?" He asked, looking up expectedly at the werewolf.

"A few hours," replied Derek, crouching down to Stiles's level. He held a small glass of honey-colored liquid and a couple of blue pills in his hand. "Take these."

"And you… You stitched me up?" Stiles questioned, eyeing the werwolf curiously as he cautiously took the drink and tablets from Derek, who rolled his eyes.

"Yes, idiot. Now drink."

Stiles let his gaze flicker over the alpha's face another moment —perhaps to check for some muscle twitch to betray a joke— before averting his attention to the glass, peering suspiciously at the golden liquid.

"What is this, your pee?" He muttered, wrinkling his nose.

"It's apple juice, Stiles."

"What? I'm calling bullshit, Derek Hale does _not_ have apple juice in his house."

"Shut up and _drink_ it, Stiles."

"Can I get a 'please?'"

"No."

"I'm pretty sure this is your pee."

"For _Fuck's sake!"_

The alpha's growl was enough to make the teen pop the tablets and guzzle down the liquid faster than you can say "use your indoor voice." _Huh. So it really was apple juice._ He emptied the glass with a small choke, handing it back to Derek as his other hand flew over his mouth, willing the drink to stay down. The liquid settled uncomfortably in his queasy stomach, but he actually felt a little bit better— less shaky and more alert.

"Good," nodded Derek, noting how a small hint of color returned to the human's cheeks. "That should help get your blood sugar up. The pills will help with the pain."

Stiles nodded silently, eyeing Derek tiredly. Being awake for five minutes turned out to be an exhausting task.

"What was the last thing you remember?"

The teen swallowed, the lines on his brow creasing as he struggled to think back.

"Um... The woods. We were in the woods. You told me not to pass out..." He uttered. He looked up at Derek, pulling a tired, apologetic smile at the werewolf. "Guess I didn't listen."

Derek nodded silently, casting a quizzical gaze to the floor before looking to Stiles again, his expression contemplative and unreadable. There was something in his eyes that made Stiles wonder if maybe he had been awake for something else he didn't remember.

He was about to inquire, but then Derek suddenly stiffened, eyes narrowing a touch before widening in alarm as he turned his head in the direction of the window. It struck the human how similar he looked to a dog perking up at the sound of an approaching mailman; only this time Stiles was ninety-nine percent certain that whatever Derek was tuned into, it wasn't the mailman.

"Derek?" he started cautiously, nervously glancing out the window himself. "What is it?"

The alpha's gaze didn't so much as flicker in his direction. The teen studied his face, the qualm in his gut intensifying as recognition crossed Derek's expression, immediately hardening into fury. The alpha pressed his lips together, nostrils flaring dangerously before he quickly sprung up, making a beeline for the front of the house. He ignored Stiles's disconcerted shouts behind him as he flung open the front door, nearly ripping the wood from it's hinges as he vigorously strode onto the frost-dusted porch and down the steps to the edge of the woods, where Scott McCall was running up to meet him.

"Derek!" Scott panted, slowing to a stop as he saw the alpha's form. Tiny flecks of snow rained down and caught the wind, whirling around them. "Where's Stiles? I'm sorry, I had to..." The werewolf trailed off as he noticed the nearing alpha's steely expression. Concern skittered across his features as he tentatively took a step forward. "...Derek? What's—"

But Scott never got to finish his question, because Derek swung his arm back and clocked him on the left side of his jaw. It would later be known as the sucker-punch that finally made his face symmetrical.

* * *

Thanks for being so patient with this chapter, guys! Next one is in progress, and I _super_ appreciate all your nice reviews! Please let me know what you think because I put a lot of effort into these stories! Happy reading, y'all. :) Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	7. Chapter 7

A loud crack scattered across the edge of the woods as Scott's head whipped to the side, stars exploding in his vision as the force of the punch painfully threw his body to the ground. He thrust his hands out in front of him as he roughly hit the earthen terrain, palms scraping the icy gravel beneath him, upon which a thin layer of snow was slowly building. He grimaced as the pain skittered up his hands, adding to the stinging discomfort of his left cheekbone and making him suck in a stunned breath as his mind reeled, unable to process —to_ believe_— that Derek Hale had just _punched_ him.

He quickly scrambled to his feet, a trembling hand shooting to his throbbing cheek as he whipped an appaled stare to Derek, who was standing stock-still with fists clenched at his sides, looking down at him as if he were scum scraped from the sewer.

"What the _FUCK_ was_ that_ for?!" He screeched, eyes widening in incredulity as he staggered over to the alpha, trying to maintain his balance. He winced and gingerly moved his head to the side, gaze narrowing at Derek as he spat out a mouthful of blood. "Son of a _bitch!_ Why the _HELL_ would you—"

"He could have _DIED,_ Scott!"

The enraged shout rang out across the chilly clearing, immediately drenching the atmosphere in an unsettling silence. Scott froze, suddenly rendered quiet by Derek's words. Small flecks of snow began gathering on their heads and shirts, sticking to them like pieces of lint that were completely disregarded by both alphas. Scott's bottom lip fell as he locked eyes with Derek, his tentative chestnut gaze unable to rip away from the older werewolf's blazing stare. Before he could even summon the feeblest of words in response, Derek plowed right over him.

"He was _stabbed_ by one of Kate's hit men," he spat, nostrils flaring dangerously as he took a step towards the teen. "In fact, you're _lucky_ he was _just_ stabbed and not _mutilated_ like your other friend, Matt! You're lucky I was able to get him back home in time— And where were you? You were too busy making kissy-faces with your girlfriend to actually HELP OUT!" He snarled, eyes glittering with disgust as they bore into Scott, lip curling. Scott stammered, flinching at Derek's words as they continued over him.

"You're an _ALPHA,_ Scott! It's your responsibility—"

"I-I know—"

"—To take care of your pack! Maybe if you had a single ounce of self-control in you, you could have—"

"I know—"

"—Shown up on time like you _PROMISED_ and helped me—"

"I know!"

"—Fend off the attacker before he almost _KILLED_ your BEST _FRIEND!"_

"I _KNOW,_ DAMN IT!"

The cry erupted from Scott's chest in an anguished roar as he straightened up, the muscles in his neck jutting out with the strain of his shout. The rage in Derek's eyes flickered momentarily, a small hint of surprise peeking through before they hardened again, although this time without as much vigor. The two were nearly face-to-face now, wrinkled noses almost touching as they tensely challenged each other, arms stiff and flexed at their sides. Scott lowered his voice, his eyes pinching with grief as he continued.

"Don't you think I _know_ that, Derek?" He spat angrily, his voice cracking. "Don't you think I've been beating myself up all _fucking_ day because I _KNOW_ it's my fault? It's _MY_ fault, okay! So _stop_ reminding me! Because I'm not the first to screw up, Derek— After all, _you're_ the one who stood by and did _NOTHING_ as you watched your own pack member get _killed_ by—"

"Don't you_ dare_ go there, Scott!" Derek snarled, thrusting a hand out and grabbing Scott by the collar of his shirt. He seethed as Scott continued to prod.

"Why not Derek?" Scott challenged, reveling over the sore-spot he'd breached. "Too afraid to face your past? I would be too, if my MY ENTIRE FAMILY WAS—"

"Guys."

The tension shattered as the weary voice breached the frigid air, the pair's hostility immediately draining away at the utterance of the single, hoarse word. The two whipped their heads towards the house, eyes widening in surprise as they fell upon the familiar, lanky figure leaning against the wooden guardrail on the front porch.

"Stiles!" Scott exclaimed, relief flooding his chest as he hungrily drank in the sight of his worse-for-wear friend.

Stiles was bent over a bit, one hand clutched over a pink stain marking his shirt by his belly button, the other white-knuckled grip welded to the splintering wood banister by the stairs. He was pale and wheezing slightly, his shallower-than-usual breaths visible in the silvery fog that spewed out between his chapped lips. His dark hair was a tangled mess of locks even more disorderly than his usual style, mimicking the stained, rumpled appearance of his jeans; it looked as if he had been though a scuffle with death, and somehow managed to walk away with his life. Scott's heart sank as he realized how true the observation was.

"Derek," Stiles stated, eyes flickering fixedly between the two. "Let go of him."

The werewolves blinked in stunned surprise. Derek stiffened, gaze sweeping over the pale teen in confusion, followed by mild annoyance. _How the hell did the kid manage to even make it to the door?_ He did not release his grip.

"Stiles," He growled, his furrowed brow betraying the smallest sliver of concern. "Get back inside and sit down! You're injured!"

The teen's breath hitched a bit as he teetered against the rail.

"No," he breathed stubbornly, staring the alpha down. "Not until you t-two stop fighting."

"Stiles, you shouldn't be out here, it's—"

"Let him_ go,_ Derek."

The werewolf hesitated, gritting his teeth as his gaze flickered uneasily between Scott and Stiles. He looked like a dog cornered in his cell by a pound-keeper. Another tense moment went by as he took one more look at Stiles's unsteady form, then roughly yanked his hand away from Scott's collar, his scowl deeper than ever.

"There," he barked, eyes flashing indignantly. "Now move your ass back—"

"Not yet," Stiles interjected, shifting his gaze over to Scott. The werewolf''s heart fluttered with hope as they locked eyes, but then plummeted as he registered the coldness in his friend's usually warm, whisky-colored eyes.

"Scott… Apologize to Derek."

Scott's mouth fell open. Confusion temporarily marred Derek's scowl.

"What!" The younger alpha cried, wincing as his outraged shout tugged at his sore cheek. "Why should—"

"For making a jab at his tragically painful past," Stiles divulged, a hint of his usual tongue-in-cheek attitude bleeding into his words. Scott opened his mouth, ready to unleash a storm of protests upon his best friend, but then silently pursed his lips. Derek may have punched him, but Stiles was right; he had gone too far with mentioning Boyd and Derek's family… _Stiles was always right._

The werewolf glanced at Derek, who was looking at him expectantly, a twinkle of curiosity in his hardened gaze. Scott scowled, tossing one more anxious glance at Stiles before clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "For… That was uncalled for."

Derek studied him, his scowl carefully kept blank.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it," he grumbled, his eyes flickering to Stiles. It was clearly not fine.

"Okay. Good…" Stiles wavered, blinking a bit as he steadied himself on the banister. He had gone a shade paler, and his thin frame had started trembling in the freezing air. Scott and Derek immediately made to move towards him, but Stiles snapped his head up, staring to the two down as he thrust a hand up in protest.

_"D-don't,"_ he warned. His voice was unusually defiant, catching the pair off guard. They froze in their tracks at the bottom of the stairs, both pairs of eyes glued anxiously on the wobbling figure. The snow had picked up, swirling more heavily across the porch and dousing the three of them in a generous dusting of snowflakes.

"Now... Scott…" Stiles panted, eyeing the ugly bruise forming on his friend's cheek. "Unless you m-managed to punch yourself, I'm assuming that's Derek's handiwork?"

Scott gaped, throwing an incredulous look at his friend. _When was he gonna give it up?_

"Y-yes, but I don't—"

"Kay then. Derek, apologize to Scott."

The older alpha stiffened, his glare deepening in bewilderment. _Was the kid serious?_ Scott blew him off —Scott had been blowing him off to hang out with Alison for _weeks_— and even after nearly _dying_ because of his friend's absence, he wanted him to _apologize?_ Derek stared at the shivering human curiously as they locked eyes. He didn't get it. _Why was the kid risking his health like a stubborn jackass for this?_

"Stiles," Scott pleaded, tugging his hair in exasperation. "Look, I don't care, just sit _down!_ Please!"

Stiles paid him no attention. He swallowed with difficulty, clearly in pain. "Sorry, Scott," he bit out. "No other way."

_"Stiles—"_

"Stiles just sit the fuck _down!"_ Derek barked angrily, an underlying tone of concern lacing his vexation. The light pink stain on the teen's shirt had deepened in color beneath his fingers; _the damn idiot must have loosened the stitches during his martyr-walk to the porch._ Scott looked desperately to Derek, his eyes shining with perturbation for his friend.

"Derek, just do it!" He demanded, face tense as he jerked his gaze to Stiles. Derek clenched his jaw, gaze flickering uneasily between the two. The human was looking at him with a startlingly clear gaze as he sagged against the banister, wheezing as he trembled with the effort to stay upright. The snow peppered his hair and eyelashes.

"Fine!" he blurted, gritting his teeth together. "I'm _sorry, _alright? For fuck's sake," he growled, brushing past Scott to reach the stairs. The younger alpha followed suit, scrambling towards his friend.

"Alright... Good," breathed Stiles, a hint of satisfaction breaching his enervated voice as his shoulders slumped, the vigor falling from his frame. He swayed dangerously, his snow-bitten fingers loosening their grip upon the wooden railing as he blearily tried to keep his eyes open. All the color drained from his face.

"Now one of you better catch me," he slurred softly, his eyelids fluttering. "B'cause…"

But he never got to finish his sentence, because his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground, much to the alarm of the two werewolves. But they were already upon the deck, and they lunged forward and caught him just before he smacked his head against the sharp edge of the first step.

_"Stiles!"_ Scott cried, panic squeezing his chest. His eyes anxiously skimmed his friend's features as he struggled to keep the human upright, anchoring himself on the sluggish but steady heartbeat that he could hear emanating from his chest. Stiles sagged limply between the two of them, his head lolling heavily against his chest. His eyes were closed, snow-dusted eyelashes still and dark against his colorless skin. He was completely dead to the world.

"Stubborn idiot," Derek muttered, frustration ruling his signature frown. "He's fine, he just fainted," he said grimly, catching sight of Scott's panic-stricken expression. "He lost a lot of blood, I'm not surprised."

The alpha observed the younger werewolf, whose gaze was glued unwaveringly to his friend, guilt plaguing his eyes. Derek sighed. _The pair were unbelievable._

"Come on, let's get him inside."

* * *

Thank you so much for the feedback, guys! Review, pretty please? I get nervous when it's quiet because then I don't know what you guys think. And stick around to read some much-needed bromance ;) Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	8. Chapter 8

The pair lifted Stiles into their arms and somewhat awkwardly managed to carry him back into the house, avoiding eye contact the entire time. The teen's pale neck was draped over Scott's arm, exposed and impossibly long as his head dangled limply during the scuffle to Derek's couch, were they gently plopped him down. Derek stepped back, his expression softening slightly as he watched Scott rearrange his friend's limbs into a more comfortable position. Wordlessly, the older alpha bent down and picked up a pillow from the floor before tapping Scott on the shoulder and handing it to him.

"Thanks," Scott murmured, eyeing his old mentor curiously as he took it. His eyes travelled down to the pillow's origin, where an old blue blanket peppered with red smudges and an empty glass lay at the foot of an armchair.

"You had him on the floor?" He questioned, almost accusatory as he tucked the pillow behind his friend's head. Derek glowered.

"I needed to be able to sew him up properly," he growled defensively, reaching down and snatching the blanket with a yank. Small particles of dust kicked up into the air and swirled around as he shook it out. "Can't exactly do that when he's curled up and cozy like some house-cat."

Scott tried his best not to smile at the comparison as he brushed away the quickly-melting snowflakes from Stiles's hair.

"Give me that blanket, will you? He's freezing."

"Not yet," Derek stated, tossing the now neatly-folded wool quilt over the arm of the couch. "Let me check his injury first. There are some towels in the bathroom, down the hall to the left. Might want to dry him off… You too," he added, tossing a glance back at the younger werewolf.

Scott instinctively glanced down, slightly surprised when he realized he was completely frosted in a layer of snowflakes, which were rapidly melting in the warm room, seeping into his clothes and hair and dripping onto the soot-stained hardwood flooring with tiny pattering sounds. Looking up, he noticed Derek had met the same snowy fate. He hurried down down the hallway to the bathroom, leaving a little trail of water droplets in his wake. When he returned with the towels, Derek was kneeling before the couch, a first aid kit open by his side as he carefully threaded a needle, licking the frayed edge of the fibre before sticking it cleanly through the eye.

Scott came around to his side, glancing at Stiles's wound as he set the stack down. The cut was longer than he thought it would be, stretching across Stiles's pallid skin in an irritated red line. A couple dozen stitches neatly laced it up, with the exception of the last few, which had come loose, presumably from his little field trip to the porch. _Idiot,_ Scott thought fondly. He wondered if it would leave a scar.

"So what took you so long to get here?"

Scott glanced sideways at Derek as he gently rubbed a white towel over Stiles's hair. The older alpha's tone was not accusatory, nor snide.

"Your uncle—"

"Peter."

"...Er, _Peter._ He needed me to help recite the binding ritual. It was at least a couple hours before we were even able to get to the morgue, and by the time we got there…" Scott trailed off, frowning. "It was almost like he was drawing it out on purpose. Like he _knew_ he was keeping me."

"Yeah, that's what he does," muttered Derek quietly, his eyes a distant storm as he gingerly tugged on the thread. "He likes to exploit people's fears and insecurities. It makes him feel powerful."

Scott nodded silently, stealing a side-glance at the werewolf. Derek had spoken with such conviction, as if he had tasted Peter's malaise firsthand for years. The younger alpha rubbed the towel down Stiles's arms, mopping up the little beads of water sticking to the dark hair on his friend's freckled skin. He could only imagine what Derek had endured and continued to deal with, when that _monster_ was his only family. A pang of guilt twisted in Scott's stomach; _it was no wonder he never smiled._

The two worked quietly for a few minutes, the distant crackling of the fireplace and Scott's soft towel-rubbing the only sounds eminent in the bare living room.

"He wanted me to leave him, you know."

Scott paused, peeking out from underneath the towel he currently held over his hair to stare at the older alpha. His hands curled around the damp washcloth as he slowly lowered it to his chest, eyes fixated on his pack brother, whose gaze glued intently on his stitch work.

"He wanted me to leave him for dead out there," Derek repeated, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "In the woods, on our way back. He knew about the alphas… How he'd slow me down, if I took him with me."

Scott silently watched the alpha snip the last stitch and tie the thread in a knot, wanting to say something but not really sure what to utter. He slowly sat back on his ankles, shoulders deflating slightly as he studied the frayed edges of the washcloth in his lap, letting Derek's words sink in. Letting out a quiet sigh, he turned to glance at the human in question, who slept peacefully.

"Stiles… That's who Stiles is," he murmured, his gaze traveling timidly over his friend's slack face. His moles, scattered across his pale skin like tiny constellations, the same moles Scott had played connect-the-dots with back in third grade. His eyelashes, thick and dark like his caterpillar brows, once called "girlish" by a sniggering idiot one day in eighth grade. His button nose, pointed and upturned with nostrils that had spurted a stream of milk last year, after Scott had cracked a joke about their biology teacher. His lips, too pretty for their own good and usually flapping at top-speed with incessant chatter about the good-looking girls and boys they'd passed in the halls, or the best new burger joint that just opened, or how Derek Hale was his least favorite person on earth, but most recently his theories on the convoluted murders and supernatural happenings to strike their town. Each feature represented a part of Stiles Stilinksi, and Scott loved every one of them.

"Then you've got a hell of a good friend, Scott," Derek stated quietly, carefully pulling Stiles's shirt down. He turned to Scott, meeting his plaintive gaze with piercing green eyes. "Make sure he knows that."

The younger werewolf returned the stare whole-heartedly, silently wondering when Derek Hale suddenly started caring so much about the kid he could never stop complaining about. He reached to his left, swapping his soaked towel for the folded wool blanket, which he shook open and spread out over Stiles's unconscious form. Then he turned back to Derek, giving the alpha an appreciative nod.

"I know."

* * *

Stiles awoke an hour later, at 11:00pm. Scott was dozing in the armchair next to him, curled up next to the fire with his shoes kicked off at his feet. He had texted the Sheriff earlier, explaining that Stiles had dropped his phone in a gutter and would be spending the night at his house. Consequently, he had texted his mom that he would be spending the night at Stiles's house. He didn't think that telling the truth about the current circumstances would result in calm or happy parents on either side, but tried not to think about it as the hearth's soft crackling lulled him to sleep. It was the groggy, slurred words of his friend beside him that yanked him back to reality before he could slip into oblivion.

"Eeeyy… Looks like I got upgraded t' the couch… Much comfier than the floor."

Scott jerked his head up, whipping his gaze towards the couch as he clumsily wiped the drool that had slipped down the side of his cheek. He smiled as Stiles did the same, blearily prying his eyes open before tiredly grinning back at him.

"Hey buddy, welcome back."

Stiles blinked, his gaze traveling wearily around the room.

"Looks like I never left," he mumbled, fishing an arm out from underneath his blanket to rub his eyes. "Still at Derek's?"

Scott nodded.

"Yer' cheek... The mark's gone."

"Yeah… Werewolf powers and stuff."

"Oh. Right."

Stiles paused, suddenly tensing as a shadow of fear crossed his features.

"My dad," he stated, his voice cracking anxiously. "My dad, he—"

"I texted him," Scott cut in quickly. "He doesn't know you're injured. He thinks you're sleeping over at my place."

The human immediately relaxed, sinking back against the pillow with a relieved sigh, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Thanks, buddy… I owe you one."

Scott paused, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at his friend's unbelievable word choice; _he_ owed _him_ one? The alpha scooted off his chair, quietly padding over to his friend. Stiles rolled his head over to face him as the werewolf crouched down, biting his lip as he met his friend's half-lidded cinnamon gaze.

"No, Stiles," He admitted candidly. "I owe _you_ one… More than one. I shouldn't have ditched you guys today. I— I broke a promise, and it nearly cost you your life. And I know I've been hanging out a lot with Allison lately because she's my first real girlfriend —which is, t-that's no excuse, really, but you… You mean everything to me, Stiles. To the whole pack. I should have done my best to protect you… I'm sorry."

Stiles stared at Scott, his face an open canvas of tender surprise.

"Scott," he stated, eyes flickering affectionately over his friend's guilt-ridden face. "It's okay."

"No, it's not—"

"Look, Scotty, you can't protect everybody _all_ the time," Stiles stated dryly, an understanding smirk playing at his lips. "Even _Batman's_ gotta have his days off."

"...I thought _you_ were Batman?"

"Oh, I am _so_ totally Batman. But you can be him when I'm busy being _this_ guy," Stiles retorted, jerking his thumb towards his chest. He stuck the tip of his tongue out and winked, making Scott break into a grin.

"Deal."

"God, you two are like an episode of The Brady Bunch."

The pair glanced over towards the hallway, where Derek Hale was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and staring at them with signature "I'm-badass-and-exasperated" look number four, the tiniest twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He had been in the garage fixing the alarm system when he had heard the teens' voices and trudged upstairs.

"Hey, don't be such a sourwolf, sourwolf," Stiles quipped, eyes dancing playfully as he craned his neck up to see the alpha. To Scott's surprise, Derek actually smirked back for half a second before turning and striding into the kitchen. Scott returned his gaze to Stiles.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Better. I feel like shit, which is a vast improvement over the huge dumpster-load of shit I felt like last time I woke up."

"Amazing, considering you almost froze your ass on the porch an hour ago."

"Hey, I had important Batman-business to attend to," Stiles retorted, poking Scott squarely in the chest.

"Ow!"

"Please, you're a werewolf. That did _not_ hurt."

Scott smiled, rubbing his sore rib as his expression melted into one of curiosity.

"Why… Why did you do that?" He questioned softly.

"Poked you? Because you're a handsome but hairy son of a—"

"Stiles, no. I mean… Why did you try yourself to the point of passing out, just so Derek and I would apologize to each other?" Scott asked earnestly, gaze sweeping across his friend's features.

"Oh… That."

Stiles scooted himself up on his elbows, sighing when Scott still held his puzzled expression.

"You still don't get it, do you Scott?" He muttered quietly, analyzing his friend's features. "You and Derek are powerful. You're able to protect me, the pack, any innocent person that stumbles in the way of whatever current murderous were-_whatever_ is in town. But without each other, you're weak. Yes, Scotty, hate to break it to you, but yeah," he said, noting the wounded expression that flickered across his friend's face. "If you guys are too busy hating each other to fight what's _really_ worth hating, you just put yourselves and everyone else in danger. That's why I go out of my way to make sure you guys don't rip each other's throats out."

There was a long pause. Scott sat in stunned silence, unable to stop staring at the pale face before him. He was in utter awe of his friend's perception, baffled beyond understanding how lanky, awkward, sarcasm-enthusiast _Stiles_ could possibly render him speechless over and over with his wisdom. Before he could stop himself, Scott turned his head towards Derek, who was frozen behind the kitchen counter, staring at Stiles with the same stunned expression. Sensing the movement, the older alpha glanced at his pack-mate, and the two met each other's eyes for a split second, exchanging a tremendous mirage of silent thoughts before ripping their gazes apart. Then Derek strode over to the couch, holding a glass filled with golden liquid and a small handful of saltines.

"Mm, got some more urine for me, Derek?" Stiles quipped, eyeing the amber-colored liquid. Scott whipped an incredulous gaze between the two of them, terrified of the possibilities the remark suggested. Derek rolled his eyes.

"Just drink it, Stiles," he grumbled, shoving the glass into the human's hand before dropping the saltines onto his lap. He turned to Scott, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Scott, if you're hungry I have some leftover spaghetti in the fridge. Help yourself."

"Oh, uh. Thanks."

"Whoa, hang on," Stiles objected, spurting some of the apple juice onto his lap. "How come _I_ don't get spaghetti?"

"Do you want to make yourself sick?" Derek suggested dryly, raising his eyebrows at the teen. "You can have something heavier in the morning."

Scott smiled as Stiles pouted and brought the glass to his lips again. Then the werewolf stood up, quirking his eyebrows as he looked to his co-leader.

"You mean, we can stay the night?" He asked tentatively. Derek returned his expression with a steady gaze, his eyes serious and honest.

"Of course."

And with that the older alpha turned and walked down the hall again, swiping another glass of apple juice from the counter before disappearing down the stairs to the garage. Scott watched him curiously the entire time, comtemplating everything that had happened that evening.

"Can you believe that Derek Hale has _apple juice?"_ Stiles speculated, stuffing two Saltines into his mouth. Scott glanced at him, watching in amusement as an array of crumbs fell from his friend's chin to the blanket below. Then he turned back towards the garage door, the corner of his lips tugging up as he suddenly understood.

"That's actually not the part I find surprising."

* * *

**—Three days later—  
**

"And don't like, wave hi or anything. Or—"

"Stiles! For the last time, I'm just going to sit in the car and wait while you go up."

It was Monday afternoon, and Stiles was driving his jeep on the road by the woods, whizzing past the trees as he nervously ran a hand through his hair. Lydia sat beside him in the passenger seat with head held high, flowing starwberry-blonde locks cascading down her shoulders like a fountain of spun auburn. In her lap sat a medium-length cardboard box, held in place over her floral print dress with perfectly manicured hands. She breezily looked out the window, her plump, berry-glossed lips pulled taught contentedly as Stiles pulled up in front of the house, the jeep rolling to a stop over the gravel with a small squeak of the brakes. He killed the engine and dropped his hands to his lap, unmoving. A few deafeningly-quiet moments passed.

"Stiles."

"Yes?"

"Go."

Stiles jerked his head towards Lydia, a thousand and one wrinkles plaguing his forehead as he pressed his lips together, eyes pleading with the terrified stance of a nervous puppy. Lydia smiled, tossing her shiny mane over her shoulder with practiced expertise as she pinned him down with her warm jade gaze, reaching over to cup her hand around his cheek.

"Stiles, you will be _fine,"_ she stated firmly, giving his cheek a light pat before drawing her hand away. She grasped the box in her lap and handed it to him, quirking a perfectly-shaped eyebrow expectantly. Stiles bit his lip, nodding as he took the package from her.

"Thanks Lydia."

"You're welcome."

"But what if—"

"Stiles Stilinkski you will march your skinny little legs up to that porch and knock on that door or I will _personally_ take my spiked stilettos to your precious car," She threatened, raising her knee to reveal a dangerous-looking metallic studded Sartore pump cushioning her left foot. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a whisper as she narrowed her eyes. "And I _really_ like these shoes."

That was all Stiles needed to throw open the door and jump outside, nearly tripping and falling over in his haste.

_"Alright,_ alright relax! Keep your cute little feet calm and _inside_ the car please," He gritted out, shooting one more weary look at her shoes before shutting the door and trudging up the stairs to the front porch. _Lydia could be terrifying sometimes._

He got to the door and paused, throwing one more look back at the gorgeous girl in his car, who had her arms crossed, a deadpan look on her face.

"Yeesh, okay I'm _going,"_ he muttered, turning back towards the door. He glanced down at the package in his hands, letting out a sigh through his nose. _Please don't kill me for this. _

He was just about to knock when the door swung open, revealing a scowling but mildly-surprised Derek Hale.

"Stiles," he stated. His tone was flat, but his brows furrowed in question as he took in the lanky form of the human before him. Stiles looked much better than he had Saturday morning before leaving the house; his eyes were brighter, and the color had seeped back into his cheeks, painting him his usual pale instead of deathly-clammy pale. The dark circles under his eyes had nearly disappeared. Derek could smell a faint tang of blood emanating from a bandage-shaped indentation beneath the teen's shirt, mixing with his usual scent of soap and cinnamon undertones, coupled with a slight tang of anxiety. He held a cardboard box in his hands.

"Sourwolf," Stiles mimicked, lowering his voice to the same deep growl as the werewolf. Derek glowered deeper.

"What do you want," the alpha demanded, regretting it when he sounded a bit harsher than he meant to. Stiles flinched.

"Geez, nice to see you too," he retorted, quirking his brow. A shadow of a smile passed his lips as he gestured the box in his hands. "But I believe the question is, 'what do _you_ want?'"

Derek eyed the package wearily, unsure of what to make of it. _What?_ Cautiously, he reached out and took it, scanning the teen's face for any betrayal of a joke. As the box was shifted into his hands, he paused as the scent from underneath the cardboard drifted through and hit his nostrils. He stared at Stiles curiously, refusing to trust his nose.

"Go on, open it."

Derek glanced down again, slowly pulling up the top flaps. Stiles grinned as Derek froze, staring at the contents inside in quiet disbelief.

In the box was a neatly-folded leather jacket— _Derek's_ leather jacket. It had disappeared Saturday morning, throwing the alpha into a state of distress that upset him more than he'd like to admit. He had gone to Scott's house and thrown the kid up against a wall, accusing him of stealing it, but the younger werewolf had denied it with a steady heartbeat. After that, Derek was utterly at a loss of where it went; never did it occur to him that _Stiles_ was the culprit.

"Sorry, I, uh, kinda stole it when we left last Saturday," Stiles admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But it was in such sad shape… I thought I'd fix it up for you."

The alpha didn't so much as glance up at the teen. He gently reached inside and pulled the soft leather out by the collar, revealing the full expanse of the newly-cleaned black material. The bloodstains were gone and the onyx skin shone deeper and richer, as if it had received an ink treatment. The large gash the arrow had left in the sleeve was now neatly stitched up with frayed edges snipped, a thin line of black embroidery thread the only factor to indicate that anything had gone amiss. It looked just like it did when his father wore it all those years ago, and Derek gazed at it like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. For once, he didn't even attempt to hide his astonishment beneath a scowl.

"Nice, huh? Lydia helped," Stiles admitted, jerking his thumb back towards his jeep. Derek glanced up, spotting the red-haired beauty sitting in the passenger seat of Stiles's beloved blue CJ-7. She smiled brightly and waved at him, winking coyly at Stiles. The human stiffened and had no choice but to wave back, shooting her a death-glare. _I told you not to wave, dammit. _

He turned back to Derek, who was now staring at him slack-jawed and inscrutable with breathtakingly wide-open emerald eyes, looking oddly vulnerable without his usual gruff expression. Stiles shifted nervously on his feet, suddenly wishing he had aborted the project and let Lydia scratch up his car.

"Er… I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have taken it," Stiles babbled, wincing as though the alpha might punch him at any given moment. "But I guess this is, er, I wanted t-to… I m-mean— thanks." He stuttered out, his gaze falling sheepishly to the ground. He could practically feel Lydia falcepalming in her seat.

Frowning, he silently cursed himself for being such a blubbering idiot. Mumbling something unintelligible that sounded like "I'll go now," he started to turn on his heels to slink back to the car, but to his surprise Derek shot out a hand and grabbed his arm, pulling him into the most surprising and tender hug he had yet to experience.

Stiles stiffened, blinking in stunned astonishment as the alpha wrapped his strong arms around him, enveloping him in a wall of warmth and security. The human's mind reeled as he processed what was actually happening, but then relaxed and melted into the embrace, squeezing the alpha back as he pressed his face into his chest, breathing in the scent of redwood and musk. Lydia sat watching from car, a knowing smile on her face.

"You're welcome, sourwolf."

* * *

**…The End!** :D Before you guys go, **important question:** How did you like this story? I have about a dozen different fic ideas I'm itching to write, but **what do you guys want to see next?** More Stiles whump? Derek whump? A story that's Scott/Stiles centric, Derek/Stiles centric, or perhaps Sheriff/Stiles centric? All stories, of course, have an extra dollop of bromance and feels ;) So what'll it be? I've got my hands hovering over my keyboard ready to write another fic asap! Keep an eye out for it within the next few days. **Thank you** so much for reading, following, and reviewing this one! And don't forget to check out **The Stiles Whump Collection** community if you want to read more fics like this! Until next time :) Love, The Typewriter Girl.


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